Two Minutes Past Midnight
by Aini NuFire
Summary: S5 AU, sequel to "Past the Point of No Return": After having his grace brutally carved out, Castiel is slowly adjusting to being human. It isn't easy, though, and when the hunt for Pestilence goes horribly wrong, it may end up being Castiel's first and last.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: How about an early post to kick off this story? But only because I'm gonna be home late this afternoon (funny how I think that happened for the last one). This is the sequel to my fic** ** _Past the Point of No Return_** **, and you'll probably need to have read that for a lot of context here to make sense. Thanks to Miyth for prompting and helping brainstorm ideas for this story, and thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading as always. ^_^**

 **Disclaimer: Still not mine; still having a blast playing in their sandbox. Also, some lines of dialogue from episode 5x21 "Two Minutes to Midnight" will be peppered in a few places; they're not mine either.**

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Chapter 1

Castiel pulled a long sleeve turtleneck over his head and tugged it down around his waist, careful not to catch a glimpse of the scars adorning his chest. They were lighter now, the new tissue only slightly pinkish rather than hideous red, but he didn't like seeing them, a permanent visual reminder of Zachariah's brutal torture that had carved out Castiel's grace, piece by piece, until he was left human. Death would have been a mercy to any angel put through that excruciating ordeal, but Castiel had survived.

Adjusting to his new…situation, had been a struggle. Still was, at times. But he had found the wherewithal to try, and in fact had spent the past week under Bobby Singer's tutelage on how to become a hunter. Castiel already had a wealth of knowledge concerning supernatural creatures, of course, but he had to learn to fight as a human rather than as an angel. Physical stamina was not something he had ever had to think about before, and though his vessel—his _body_ —was not in poor condition, he had lost a great deal of strength from his time convalescing and recovering from his wounds. Bobby had put him through his paces to get him back in shape. It had been unpleasant, as were so many things now, but Castiel had been determined not to be defeated so soon. Even if the workouts made his chest burn and legs ache for days afterward.

He did happen to excel at firearms training, which made him feel slightly less down on his progress. Becoming mortal hadn't diminished his hand and eye coordination, and Bobby had called him quite the 'sharpshooter,' which had sounded like a compliment. And he still knew how to wield a blade. He could be useful.

Castiel pulled a sweater on over his shirt next, a wool-knit piece that was a size too big and hung loosely about his frame. He preferred that, though. His healed wounds didn't hurt anymore, unless he moved sharply the wrong way and tugged at a section of keloid scarring. But the extra material served as additional protection—both physically and psychologically. The more layers he put on, the more he could hide what was underneath…the more he could pretend he wasn't this vulnerable and fragile thing stitched back together from tattered pieces.

It was irrational, and Castiel knew it, but there were few coping methods he could cling to, as Bobby didn't let him touch the liquor. Not that Castiel yearned to drown his sorrows in drink. The numbness he'd felt after consuming a liquor store's entire stock had been alleviating, but the hangover afterward had been miserable, even with an angel's constitution. Castiel wasn't sure the trade-off was worth it, though it apparently was to Bobby and Dean. The double-standard perplexed Castiel, but he didn't feel like broaching the subject with either of them.

He pulled his boots on last and headed downstairs. Sam and Dean were due back that morning. They'd called Bobby the night before to say their case in Indiana was finished, and that they had important news, but they'd declined to divulge its contents over the phone.

Castiel went into the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker. He carefully removed the bag of grounds from the cupboard and measured out the appropriate amount as Bobby had taught him. In addition to hunter training, the older man had assigned Castiel several tasks around the house, such as brewing the coffee in the morning, doing laundry, and translating obscure texts into English. Castiel didn't mind. He wanted to earn his keep and repay Bobby's kindness for taking him in. And though the tasks were often menial compared to what his duties had been as a soldier, Castiel was grateful to be kept busy. Moping, as the older hunter called it, did not suit him very well, as it was all too easy to fall back on dark thoughts and forget why he was trying at all.

Bobby wheeled in from the den, his clothes rumpled and cap missing, hair slightly mussed. He greeted Castiel with his usual incoherent grunt that was probably meant to be some form of 'good morning,' but Bobby sometimes needed fresh coffee before he could string a complete sentence together. Thus Castiel making sure the pot was ready for him.

He retrieved a mug from the shelf Bobby couldn't reach and filled it with the steaming brown brew. "There are still eggs in the refrigerator," Castiel said as he handed over the cup. "I realize what I did wrong the last time with the temperature and not stirring at precise intervals, if you would like me to try again."

Bobby took a long drag of his coffee, managing to simultaneously arch a single brow at Castiel. "Eh, why not," he finally said. "I'll tell the boys to do a supply run on their way in."

Meaning if Castiel screwed up breakfast again with the last of their fresh ingredients, they wouldn't be forced to eat nothing but beef jerky and dry cereal without milk.

With his cup in one hand, Bobby turned his wheelchair around and rolled back into the den. Castiel heard him a moment later telling someone to stop at the store and stock up.

"Because I ain't teaching your wingman to drive. You boys want to eat when you get here, then pitch in!"

Castiel opened the refrigerator and took out the carton of eggs. It wasn't easy for Bobby to go into town and shop for supplies. Castiel's clothes had been bought online and shipped to his doorstep, which was why the sizes didn't quite match. Part of Castiel wanted to offer to take care of the shopping for Bobby, but there was the fact that he didn't know how to drive. Plus, he became nervous every time he thought about venturing out into the human world. When he'd been an angel, it hadn't mattered to him that he didn't fit in or came across as awkward and strange.

Now, though, now he was one of them, and he wasn't quite ready to experience the degree of ostracization he was sure to receive.

It took him several tries to crack the eggs over the side of the pan. The first time he had attempted to cook, he had been so heavy-handed with the eggs that he'd gotten pieces of the shell in the yolk, which he hadn't known he should then remove. Not that it mattered, since he'd then burned the concoction until it was inedible. However, those were lessons he wasn't going to forget this time, and so he took great care trying to delicately crack each egg. He still managed to get some shell in the pan, but when he tried to pick it out, the blasted piece kept out-maneuvering him. It was rather frustrating, and his fingertips were getting too hot this close to the heated cast iron, while the egg inside was starting to sizzle, and he knew if he didn't stir it soon it would burn.

Exhaling in frustration, Castiel snatched up a spoon and ended up scooping out a huge chunk of egg white in order to remove that minuscule fleck of shell. He dropped the utensil in the sink and hurried back to stir the eggs. The process the yolk and egg whites underwent, turning from gooey liquid to a fluffy, spongy consistency was fascinating. Castiel had noticed from browsing the Internet that many recipes called for a variety of spices to be added, but Bobby had told him not to mess with the basics, and they could salt and pepper it to their own tastes after it was done.

So Castiel maintained a strict vigil over the pan until the eggs were a nice white and yellow. At the first sign of browning, he hurriedly scooped them from the pan onto two plates, and then turned the stove off. That had gone better than last time.

Bobby's wheelchair squeaked as he rolled back in from the den, customary ball cap now in place. "That don't smell half bad."

Castiel couldn't have hoped for higher praise. Now if only it _tasted_ okay…

He grabbed a couple of utensils and set everything at the small table. Bobby scooted closer and picked up his fork to take a large mouthful. Castiel waited for the older hunter to spit it back out as he'd done the first time, but after a moment of chewing, Bobby actually swallowed. Then he took another bite.

Castiel finally took a seat and lifted a tentative forkful to his mouth. The eggs didn't taste anything like Dean's, but they were edible, albeit a bit plain. Castiel watched Bobby reach for the salt container and sprinkle some on, which Castiel then tried to repeat. He'd also learned the hard way not to allow too much salt to get dumped on one's food, as that inevitably ruined it as well. His second bite was better, but not quite as seasoned as he might have enjoyed, but he didn't dare risk over-salting it. Then he'd have nothing to fall back on except the dry Lucky Charms, which Castiel did not see the appeal in. It was something Dean had left in the pantry.

They were almost finished when the telltale sound of the Impala's engine rumbled up the drive. Castiel abandoned his plate as he quickly stood and went to the door. Though he'd known Sam and Dean were alright after their last hunt, he couldn't help wanting to see for himself, to make sure they were, in fact, okay. But then…he had to remind himself that he wasn't their guardian angel anymore.

Sam and Dean exited the Impala, veering around to the trunk where they retrieved several grocery bags full of supplies. Dean straightened as soon as he turned his gaze toward the house.

"Hey, Cas."

"Dean. Sam." Castiel nodded in greeting.

Dean arched a brow at him. "New wardrobe?"

Castiel glanced down at his attire. "Yes. Bobby was kind enough to purchase some additional articles for me." He'd been borrowing the Winchesters' clothing before.

"And he decided to dress you like Mr. Rogers?"

"Dean," Sam chided with an eye roll.

Castiel picked at his sweater's sleeve, suddenly unsure if he should be self-conscious about the apparel. Dean's tone was often difficult to discern. "Who's Mr. Rogers?"

"Ignore him," Sam answered. "We've got news."

Sam's eagerness dispelled Castiel's concern over the sweater, and he held the door open for the brothers as they made their way into the house and deposited their shopping bags on the coffee table in the den. Bobby was already behind his desk, his mug filled to the brim with his second cup of coffee. He looked over what he could see of the supplies they'd brought and nodded in approval.

"Alright," Bobby said gruffly. "What is it you couldn't say over the phone?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, and then Sam cleared his throat. "We have a way to put Lucifer back in the Cage."

Castiel blinked in astonishment. If there was a way to do that, surely he would have known…except the angels hadn't wanted Lucifer to stay locked in Hell; they'd wanted the Apocalypse so Michael could win the big battle and usher in paradise.

"How?" he asked, still skeptical.

"Apparently the Horsemen's rings are a key," Sam answered. "We just have to get all four and put them together."

Bobby snorted. "Oh, is that all?"

Castiel furrowed his brow. "How did you come by this information?"

Sam and Dean glanced at each other again, and this time there was a layer of silent communication Castiel could never hope to decipher, but that he felt suddenly wary of.

Dean cleared his throat and looked back at Castiel. "Um, Gabriel."

Castiel stared at him, then at Sam. "Gabriel?" he repeated dumbly, because there was no way his deserter of an older brother would come out of hiding to help the Winchesters defeat Lucifer. Not only was Gabriel a coward, but he had made it abundantly clear whose side he was—or wasn't—on.

"Yeah," Sam said, expression pinched in what Castiel wanted to classify as sadness, though the context didn't call for it.

"Some pagan gods set a trap for us," Dean picked up. "They weren't happy about the Apocalypse. Gabriel showed up, tried to help us."

Castiel was still having trouble wrapping his head around that. "So Gabriel saved you?" But if he was finally willing to take a stand in the war, why hadn't he accompanied the Winchesters back to Bobby's? "And is he going to retrieve the remaining Horseman rings?" Castiel asked.

The brothers exchanged another discomfited glance. "No," Dean said.

"He, uh," Sam wavered. "Lucifer showed up. Gabriel held him off so we could escape." Sam's eyes turned sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Cas, he didn't make it."

Castiel continued to stare owlishly at them. They must be recounting events wrong. Gabriel stand up to Lucifer? In order for the Winchesters to escape? That was a complete reversal to what the Trickster archangel had been advocating before with the brothers playing their roles. And then for Gabriel to sacrifice himself for Sam and Dean? That was preposterous.

"Gabriel has faked his death before," Castiel pointed out.

Sam gave him a regretful look. "I know, but this time…he left us a message, said if we were watching it, he was dead. That's when he told us about the rings."

Castiel still couldn't fathom it. Not only what Sam and Dean were telling him, but he couldn't seem to figure out how he even felt about the news. Castiel had mourned Gabriel's death the first time, and then when he'd discovered it had all been a farce, instead of a heartfelt reunion, his capricious brother had locked Castiel in a pocket dimension to be tormented. The anger and sense of betrayal had been almost too much to bear, and so Castiel had shoved it down deep and focused on the tasks at hand. Now…now he would never get a chance to reconcile with his older brother. And Gabriel had died while Castiel was still holding a grudge against him…

"Cas?" Sam prompted gently.

Castiel gave himself a small shake. "I'm fine," he said automatically. He needed to focus on the issue at hand, not his emotions. "So, we need to procure the four rings of the Horsemen?"

"We have two already," Dean said, flicking a concerned look at Castiel. "Halfway there."

"Yeah," Bobby spoke up, "but I'm betting Death and Pestilence are gonna be slightly more heavy hitters than their pals. And any clue on how to find them? For the first two, you boys just happened into them."

"We'll start with Pestilence," Sam said. "Search for signs of weird disease outbreaks, I'm guessing."

Bobby shrugged in acceptance.

"Sounds like a plan," Dean said, and reached for the shopping bags. "I'll whip up some grub." He handed some of the bags to Castiel in clear instruction to help carry them into the kitchen, which he did.

He'd forgotten about the mess from his cooking that morning, as he'd been distracted by the Winchesters' arrival and hadn't cleaned up yet. The egg residue in the pan had crusted over, which would make it more difficult to clean, and the counter was cluttered with bowls and utensils.

Dean swept an assessing eye over the kitchen. "Bobby made eggs?" he asked incredulously.

"Um, no." Castiel rolled his neck awkwardly. "I did."

Dean arched his brows, but then quickly attempted to cover his surprise. "Yeah? You been learning to cook while we were gone?"

"Some," he replied. "It's…edible." At least this morning's was. Castiel didn't count that as a guarantee his next attempt would produce the same result. "I understand the basics," he continued as Dean unpacked the food. He moved to grab the pan off the stove and wash it in the sink. "My skills are nothing compared to yours, though."

"I can teach you," Dean said casually. "You tried cheese omelets yet?"

Castiel furrowed his brow as he tried to recall what an omelet looked like. "No."

"Perfect." Dean got a clean bowl down from the cupboard and set it next to the new carton of eggs. "We'll even add bell peppers. Just because Sam has this thing about a vegetable quota. But mostly cheese and sausage, because meat is a man's meal."

Castiel wasn't sure how that worked, since females also ate animal protein. He didn't ask, however, and simply finished washing and drying the pan, which he then replaced on the stove. Dean had bought everything he said he'd use in the omelets, along with other items that Castiel put away in the fridge and pantry. Then he moved to observe over Dean's shoulder as the hunter whipped together what looked like, in Castiel's opinion, a very complicated dish.

Dean folded the mixture into the pre-heated pan and watched it cook. "So, how are you doing?" he asked carefully. "I mean with, you know, everything?"

There was a heavy meaning behind that question that even Castiel could detect. He hesitated before answering. The last time he and Dean had had this conversation, Castiel had not been doing well at all. Things were better, certainly, but…they would never be the same as they were before. He would never be the same as he used to be.

"I am…coping," he finally responded. "But…it is difficult, at times."

Dean nodded as he lifted the corner of the omelet to check its progress. "That's being human."

Yes, the human experience seemed to be nothing but one struggle after the other. Granted, Castiel hadn't been human for very long, but based on what he'd witnessed as an angel, there wasn't much evidence to the contrary. Joy, when it could be found, lay in small things. Such as a delicious meal. Or the companionship of good friends.

Dean cleared his throat. "About Gabriel…"

"I'm glad he was able to help you when I was not," Castiel said stiffly.

Dean frowned. "I know you two weren't exactly on good terms."

"He abandoned Heaven, just like God did," Castiel rejoined, hating how after all this time, bringing up those memories could still hurt. His chest constricted, and his throat grew tight. The intensity of human emotions was suffocating.

"Yeah," Dean conceded, and flipped the omelet. "But he turned out to be one of the good ones. And, he was still your brother."

Castiel dropped his gaze to the floor. 'Brother' didn't have the same meaning for him as it did for Dean. To Castiel, 'brotherhood' was synonymous with betrayal, cruelty, and judgement.

"Like Zachariah, Gabriel felt no sense of loyalty out of it."

Dean flinched, and silence fell between them save the sizzling in the pan. When the omelet was ready, he scooped it out onto a plate and poured more egg whites in for the next one.

"It's okay to still grieve him," Dean finally said, looking up to catch Castiel's eye.

Castiel felt another pang in his chest, because on some level, he _did_ grieve Gabriel. Then. Now. It was all so confusing.

Castiel squared his jaw against the emotions, pushing them down. "I am glad to see you and Sam again."

"Bobby's a hard-ass to live with, huh?" Dean joked, graciously accepting the change in topic.

Castiel attempted to produce one of those small smiles he'd seen one of the Winchesters make when they were sharing a secret. "He can be a…drill sergeant," he said, hoping he got the colloquialism correct.

Dean grinned, suggesting he had. "Try some of that omelet before you take it to Sam."

Castiel turned his attention to the plate with a frown. "I can't eat Sam's breakfast. Besides, I already ate."

Dean grabbed a fork and reached past him to cut a corner off. "I can see some of your cold eggs still sitting on the table there. And it's just a taste."

Castiel had to admit the omelet smelled much better than what he'd made himself, so he tentatively poked the fork into the small piece Dean had cut, and raised it to his mouth. The explosion of flavor took him by surprise. He'd known Dean was a good cook, of course, but in comparison to his own mediocre attempts, this was remarkably better.

"Thought so," Dean said smugly. "I'll make you one, too."

Castiel flicked a glance at the eggs he'd left forgotten on the table. Bobby's plate was gone, though whether the hunter had eaten it all or thrown it away remained uncertain. "Perhaps you should make one for Bobby as well. I'm sure he'd appreciate it a lot more than…well, the paltry breakfast I made." He ducked his head ashamedly.

"Bobby's not that picky," Dean replied offhandedly. "Or refined. Take that plate to Sam and you can make the next one."

Castiel stiffened. "Oh, I'm not sure—"

Dean waved the spatula at him. "No time like the present to learn, right?"

Castiel opened his mouth to point out that Pestilence was actually the priority at the moment…but he wasn't very good with the computer and searching for things online, which was what Sam and Bobby were doing. So he supposed that feeding the working hunters was all he could contribute at the moment.

"Alright." He picked up the plate and started toward the den, catching what looked like a happy expression on Dean's face. Perhaps now that the Winchesters were back, and if they were still willing to teach Castiel the ins and outs of being human, things might start to get a little better.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Ugh, Pestilence has paid me a visit this week. -_-  
Thank you Cruelest Sea for your review! Some dialogue from 5.20 "The Devil You Know" in this chapter, but I'm rearranging canon sequences and details to fit this story.**

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Chapter 2

Dean was relieved that Cas seemed to be adjusting to humanity well enough. He had to admit that he'd been a little concerned about leaving Cas alone with Bobby, even though it had been Cas's choice. The ex-angel had asked the older hunter to train him before he went out with the Winchesters. The gesture had been as much for Bobby as it was for Cas, and Dean hadn't begrudged it. But he was also responsible for Cas's current situation, and Dean had vowed to do everything he could to help his friend through it. And even though it was good that Cas was learning simple things like how to cook and hunt, Dean wanted to be the one to help teach him. He owed Cas that much.

Plus, Bobby's tastes in clothes left something to be desired, and Dean decided to fit in a trip to a Walmart when they went out on the next hunt.

Which was looking like it'd be sooner rather than later.

"Found something," Sam said after only an hour of scouring news websites.

Dean lifted his head up from his own laptop.

"Get this," his brother continued. "In Enid, North Dakota, several statues around town reportedly starting crying."

Dean's brows rose. Okay, that was weird, but not necessarily what they were looking for. "What makes you think it's Pestilence?"

"Because the town is also currently having an outbreak of swine flu."

Huh. Well, still rather slim, but better than nothing. Dean shut his laptop down. "Alright then. To Enid, North Dakota we go." He turned to Cas, who was sitting at one corner of Bobby's desk with a stack of old books he'd been translating. "You want to come with this time?"

Cas flicked an uncertain glance at Bobby, who shrugged.

"I've taught you all I can. Nothin' like field experience to teach you the rest."

Cas still looked slightly nervous, but nevertheless nodded.

"Great," Dean said eagerly. "You got a go-bag to pack?"

"Um, yes." Cas hesitantly stood and made his way toward the stairs and up to the bedroom he'd been staying in.

Once he was out of earshot, Dean leaned toward Bobby and lowered his voice. "How was training?"

Bobby shrugged again. "Like I said, best teacher is field experience. But he ain't exactly a noob. Not a bad shot, either. Which reminds me…" Bobby opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a handgun. "Cas is gonna need this."

Dean tried to picture the former angel using a gun, but the image wasn't quite clicking. However, Dean had never expected to see Cas standing at a stove learning to flip an omelet, either. The cold hard fact was Cas was human now, which meant he was doing human things like shooting a gun instead of opening up a can of angel whoop-ass on demons. It was just still taking Dean some time getting used to.

He picked up the gun and headed upstairs. Cas's door was partially open, but Dean knocked anyway.

"I'm almost ready," Cas responded.

Dean nudged the door open and found Cas stuffing another one of those big knitted sweaters into a duffel bag on the bed. Dean needed to introduce him to flannel. "Got ya one more thing to pack," he said, holding up the gun.

Cas blinked at it like he'd never seen one before.

"It's from Bobby," Dean explained. "Every hunter needs one. We'll get you some silver rounds to stash with it."

"Oh, yes, thank you." Cas accepted the weapon, turning it over in his hand. He then gingerly placed it in the bag, tucking it down on the side.

"I know it's not what you're used to."

"I know how to use it," Cas interrupted. "I won't be a liability."

Dean frowned. "I know. Bobby said you were a good shot. But, um…" He reached into the back of his waistband to pull out an angel blade. "You're probably more comfortable with this."

He offered it to Cas, who hesitated a moment before reverently taking the blade and gazing at it intently. It wasn't Cas's own angel blade; Dean had no idea what had become of that one after Cas had been captured by Zachariah. It was probably long gone. But the Winchesters had picked up a couple over the course of their dealings with the winged dickbags, and Dean figured Cas should have one.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "Now you've got two of the most important pieces in a hunter's arsenal."

Cas's mouth turned down slightly, and he shifted his gaze to his duffel. "Will we be posing as federal agents?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Probably." He scanned the bag's contents, trying to figure out what had Cas looking so critical. It was just some old jeans and plain long sleeve shirts. Realization dawned. Right, a hunter's arsenal. Cas had been around them long enough to figure out most of this stuff on his own.

"We'll stop and get you some FBI threads on the way out of town. Maybe some other shirts."

Cas wrapped his arms around himself almost self-consciously. "The shirts I have are sufficient. But FBI…threads…would be appreciated."

Dean nodded. When Cas didn't say anything else and didn't move, Dean started backing toward the door. "Okay, well, when you're ready."

"Dean." Cas looked up, expression heavy with several emotions the hunter couldn't identify. "Thank you for the angel blade."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "No problem."

Cas zipped his bag closed and slung it over his shoulder.

Guess it was time to head out and go find Pestilence.

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Dean's and Sam's stuff was still packed and in the Impala's trunk—not like they ever _unpacked_ to settle in anywhere for long—and Dean had to push their bags aside to make room for Cas's. It was strange, having to take into account a third traveler. Before, Cas just flitted in and out as he pleased, and he only ever brought himself, not a duffel or an extra jacket. Dean found himself having to re-evaluate a lot of little things he'd never given much thought to when it had always been him and Sam, and they had a seamless rhythm. Now Dean had to make a mental note to do things like buy an extra bottle of water or bag of chips when they stopped for gas, because Cas was human now, just like them.

Dean kept his promise, and stopped at the nearest big shopping outlet on their way out of Sioux Falls to get Cas a few more clothing articles. Finding a suit wasn't that hard, and it almost made Cas look like his old self, sans the beige trench coat. Dean started thinking about looking for one to complete the get-up, but quickly changed his mind. A coat wasn't going to restore Cas's grace.

Sam came back with a selection of ties while Cas was in the dressing room, and Dean immediately picked the dark forest green, telling his brother to put back the blue ones. Cas was having to practically reinvent himself; might as well do it from the ground up.

Dean even tried to convince Cas to get some flannel shirts, but when the guy finally gave in, he picked out sizes that were too big, saying that way they'd fit over other shirts. Come to think of it, Cas looked like he was wearing a lot of bulky layers, not just the sweater. Was he anemic? Dean would have to make sure Cas ate a steak or something when they stopped at a diner.

With that errand done and Cas now equipped with everything he needed to join them as fake federal agents—Sam had even whipped up a set of credentials for him—they got back on the road toward North Dakota.

"I figure we'll go in as the CDC," Sam said. "Center of Disease Control," he added a beat later, probably for Cas's benefit.

"Sounds good," Dean responded.

Cas shifted in the backseat. "I am unfamiliar with their protocols…"

Dean shrugged. "Not like me and Sam are. Just act confident and in charge, and people will buy it."

Cas furrowed his brows, and after a moment leaned forward toward Sam. "What are we selling?"

Dean rolled his eyes while Sam tried to cover a small smile.

"The con," Sam explained without a hint of impatience or condescension.

"Oh." Cas leaned back and lapsed into silence for several beats before speaking up again. "Does it concern you that your approaches are in the same vein as immoral charlatans?"

Dean had to hold back a sigh. Cas probably didn't know about their credit card schemes, but come on, if they actually got paid for saving the world, then they wouldn't have to commit fraud.

"We're not conning people out of money," Sam replied.

Except when pool hustling, but those douches usually had it coming. Dean didn't mention that.

"And we're doing it to stop monsters and help people, so…" Sam shrugged one shoulder. "I wouldn't say it's necessarily _immoral_. And that's got to count for something, right?"

Dean glanced in the rearview mirror at Cas's thoughtful expression.

"I suppose," Cas finally responded.

And that was all he said on that matter.

They arrived in Enid and stopped at a gas station to change into their suits before heading to the hospital. When Cas came out of the restroom, he was walking awkwardly and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. Dean was about to ask if he had ants in his pants before catching himself and deciding it wasn't worth the former angel's perplexed look at the moment.

"It still fit okay?" he asked instead, even though it had fit fine back in the dressing room at the store.

Cas rolled his neck and fiddled with his tie. "Yes. It's just…different."

Dean frowned. Different because it wasn't the suit Cas had worn for the past two years? Or different from the marshmallow sweaters he'd grown accustomed to wearing? Well, whatever.

Dean stepped closer and adjusted the green tie, cinching the knot a little higher and straightening it out. "There. Now you look the part, Agent Carter."

Cas glanced down at himself, still appearing uncertain. Dean clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly.

"Let's go."

They drove the short distance to the county hospital and headed inside. Dean and Sam immediately veered toward the information desk, while Cas trailed closely behind.

"Hi there," Sam greeted the security officer behind the counter while producing his badge. "Agents Cross, Bennett, and Carter, CDC. Who's the doctor overseeing the swine flu patients?"

The guard looked surprised, but quickly recovered. "Uh, I think Dr. Foster."

"Where can we find him?" Sam asked.

"Fourth floor."

Sam nodded. "Thank you."

They made their way to the elevator and up to the fourth floor, then sought out a nurse's station where they asked for Dr. Foster to be paged. Dean swept his gaze around, noting that pretty much every room was filled with patients and the sound of coughing. It looked like swine flu central. If this was Pestilence, what was he up to?

A man in a white doctor's coat emerged from a room and strode toward them. "You guys are CDC?" he asked. "You got out here fast."

"Outbreaks like this are taken seriously," Dean replied. "Dr. Foster?"

The man nodded, glancing over each of them. "Three of you, wow. I only sent the results of the first cultures this morning. Did you find something in the samples?"

"No," Sam said hurriedly. "But we want to get a jump on this. Tell me, have you noticed anything unusual about the strain—any signs of behavioral change, like aggression maybe?"

Dr. Foster blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Have the flu patients exhibited any signs of demonic tendencies?" Cas said.

Dean winced. "He means homicidal."

The doctor let out a chuckle. "Uh…symptomatically speaking, we're looking at a relatively mild case of swine flu here. Probably add up to a miserable week off of work, and that's about it."

Huh. "So nothing unusual," Dean checked.

"Well, a day and a half ago, we didn't have a single case. Now we're looking at over seventy—the infectious equivalent of a briefcase bomb. So, yeah, I might call that a little unusual."

"Day and a half?" Sam repeated.

Cas nudged him. "That's the same time those statues started crying."

Right, guess there was something to that after all.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Dr. Foster asked.

"What was what?" Dean said.

"Did you just say a bunch of statues started crying?"

Dean opened his mouth to brush it off, but Cas beat him to it.

"I'm surprised you aren't aware of it, given that it happened only a few blocks from here. The statues were of various patron saints of health and healing, so I'm sure you see the significance."

Dean groaned internally.

Dr. Foster stared at Cas like he was an alien, which the fallen angel might as well have been. "Are you for real?"

Cas furrowed his brow. "Y-yes. Of course I'm real."

Dr. Foster narrowed his eyes as though on the verge of calling for a psych consult, and Dean shot his brother a look to do something before this train wreck derailed any further.

"Our colleague likes to take a holistic approach to medicine," Sam jumped in. "Beliefs and superstitions can play a role in a patient's mental health as well as physical."

Cas frowned at Sam, and Dean had to catch his eye to give him a warning glare to keep silent.

Dr. Foster flicked a now suspicious look between them. "Just…get us some vaccine. That's what we really need here."

"You got that right," Dean muttered as the doctor turned away to return to his patients. "Well, that was a steamin' hot pile of nothing."

"Doesn't make sense," Sam said, starting toward the elevator. "Pestilence touched down here, I'm sure of it."

Dean cast one final glance around at the maxed out patient ward, and had to agree. "But why is he dealing them soft serve like swine flu when he could do way more damage? I don't get it."

Sam shook his head, at a loss. "I don't know, but it doesn't seem like he's still here. So let's just find a motel and see if we can't figure out where he's gone now."

Cas was quiet on the elevator ride down and then on the walk out to the car, his posture hunched forward. Dean waited until they were in the Impala before saying anything.

"Cas?"

Cas kept his gaze fixed on his lap. "I…I messed that up, didn't I?"

Dean glanced at Sam and they shared a grimace. "Nah, we got what we needed. Just, for future reference, best not to talk about supernatural stuff in front of humans who aren't hunters."

Cas's frown only deepened. "How are you supposed to gather the information you need if you can't ask direct questions?"

"Um, well," Sam started. "You learn how to ask indirect questions. And play things off as something else."

"You mean use metaphors and colloquialisms with hidden meanings."

"Uh, yeah."

Cas was silent for a beat. "I can't use what I don't even understand."

"We can give you a crash course in pop culture," Dean said. He'd been wanting to give one to Cas long before the angel had lost his grace, anyway, and he had a whole list of movies they could watch to get started. Except, they should probably wait until after they'd ganked Pestilence. Though then there was Death, oh, and Lucifer… So, basically, if they _survived_ the Apocalypse, Dean could give Cas a long overdue education in pop culture.

"It wouldn't help, though," Cas said despondently. "I'm never going to fit in among you, never really _be_ one of you."

Dean frowned, and twisted around in his seat to face the back. "Cas, you've only been human for like a month. You can't expect to get everything right away."

He wanted to tell Cas that he _could_ adjust, that he could learn to be human. Dean had seen it in that future Zachariah had sent him to. But there'd been the drug use, and the group orgies, which Dean really didn't want to bring up and definitely didn't want to let happen in this timeline. He didn't know how to encourage his friend, though.

"Dean's right," Sam put in, also turning to face Cas. "It's just gonna take time. But we're here to help you. You're not gonna have to navigate anything on your own."

Cas didn't look reassured as he stared disconsolately out the window. Dean held back a sigh and turned the key in the ignition. He knew adjusting wasn't gonna be easy, but of all the challenges he'd expected to face, Cas worrying about fitting in hadn't been one of them. For one thing, the angel had never cared about that before. He'd been unapologetically awkward and inappropriate at times, not seeming to care if anyone thought him strange. He was an angel with a purpose and a mission, and couldn't be bothered by such trivial things.

Now, though, now it seemed that Cas as a human did care about fitting in. Dean recalled when Cas had given in about the flannel at the store.

 _"Is the sweater really that bad?"_

Dean had made a joke about not if Cas wanted to look like one half of Bert and Ernie. Which of course Cas hadn't understood, but he'd immediately gone to the racks and started picking out some flannel. Who would have figured he'd be so sensitive about things.

Dean mentally chided himself. It was his fault Cas had to go through this, and it wasn't even like Cas had chosen to become human. No, Dean's careless actions had led to his best friend getting his grace carved out slowly and excruciatingly. So Dean could cut him some slack.

He just hoped Cas would do the same for him as they both tried to figure out everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you Pony for reviewing! Yup, Cas is definitely out of his element. In other news, watch for a one shot this Wednesday!**

* * *

Chapter 3

Castiel tried to take a small measure of consolation that he hadn't, in fact, ruined the interview at the hospital. But he'd done exactly what he feared and said the wrong thing. He'd tried to act confident and authoritative like the Winchesters had said in order to 'sell it,' but it had backfired. Like so many of his initial attempts at being human.

Perhaps social interaction would be like cooking, something he could slowly improve on, as long as he stuck with the basics. He would let Sam and Dean handle the important stuff, and Castiel would just have to find another way to be useful in their unit. He'd always been more of a foot soldier anyway.

They stopped at a motel for the night, and it wasn't until they entered the room that Castiel pulled up short at the sight of only two beds. Of course, on the few times Castiel had accompanied the Winchesters on the road in the past, he hadn't needed a place to sleep. Dean and Sam were probably operating on auto-pilot, as he'd heard Dean say before. On the other hand, Castiel knew the hunters were limited with their monetary resources, so it just might not be feasible to rent two rooms for the night. Castiel found himself standing in the middle of the floor awkwardly, having absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do in this situation.

Sam set his bag on the floor and turned to Dean. "Okay, let's go." He held his hands out, right fist braced on his left palm.

Dean took the same position. "You're going down."

Castiel's concerns were momentarily forgotten as he watched the brothers face off in this very strange duel. They smacked their fists against their palms two times before flashing out a different hand shape on the third count. Sam's face broke out in a grin as he scissored his fingers at Dean's flat hand.

"I never win at this," the older Winchester grouched.

Sam grinned, and picked up his bag to put on the bed closest to the bathroom.

"I don't understand." Castiel said.

"Dean's sleeping on the floor," Sam explained.

Castiel furrowed his brow. "And your method of deciding was…finger combat?"

Sam's mouth quirked. "Rock, Paper, Scissors. We'll teach you how to play so at the next motel you and I will see who gets the floor. That way we rotate and it's fair."

Castiel cast a dubious glance at the floor. It looked uncomfortable. "Shouldn't Dean and I spar to see which one of us gets the other bed?"

Dean waved a hand dismissively. "Nah. Next time. I'm gonna go on a food run. What's everybody want?"

Castiel wanted to argue that this arrangement was not truly fair unless Castiel participated in the elimination process, but Dean seemed intent on brushing it off, and so he reluctantly let it go.

"Salad," Sam said as he got out his laptop and set it up on the small kitchenette table.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Burger okay for you, Cas?"

He nodded. "Whatever you get will be fine."

Dean scooped up his keys and departed, leaving Castiel still holding his bag and looking at the other bed uncomfortably. But he couldn't just stand there all night, and so he moved to tentatively place his duffel on the mattress. Glancing at Sam to make sure his attention was elsewhere, Castiel quickly pulled out his sweater and shrugged out of the suit jacket so he could put on the knit-wool instead. Then he turned to Sam.

"Bobby showed me how to use the computer," Castiel began hesitantly. "Can I help?"

Sam looked up, seeming surprised. "Sure." He got up and went to Dean's bag to pull out their second laptop, which he set on the table across from his own and gestured for Castiel to take a seat in front of.

Castiel sat down and turned the computer on, then clicked on the little icon for the web browser. But here he faltered. Bobby had shown him the basics of scanning news sites, but he didn't know how to refine his search to what was relevant to their task. There were simply too many news articles across the board to go through every single one.

Castiel nipped at his bottom lip as he considered the problem. Well, there were tabs at the top of the website according to topic, and there was one titled "Health." He clicked on that. Perhaps he could figure this out without bothering Sam and distracting him from his own search. Although, there weren't likely to be stories about statues crying under this heading. Which would be better to look for?

Castiel typed in "statues crying" in the url bar and hit enter. He frowned at the results that came up. Entries ranging from miracles recognized by the Catholic Church to stories about Virgin Mary statues, to posts about hoaxes filled the web page. He couldn't even see a story about the recent statues here in Enid.

Biting back a sigh, Castiel typed the news web address back into the url bar and then found the "Health" tab again. He'd focus on searching for news related to the swine flu, then.

Dean returned with two large paper bags exuding the aroma of hot greasy food. Sam scooted his laptop over to make room, so Castiel did the same as Dean started unpacking the meal.

"Salad for the beanstalk here," Dean said, setting a plastic box in front of Sam. "Burgers for those of us with refined palettes." He pulled out a burger and set it in front of Castiel, then another in front of himself, followed by two cartons of fries.

"Find anything?" Dean asked as he unwrapped his burger.

"Not yet," Sam replied, still clacking away at his keyboard. He paused in between scrolling to open up his salad and eat a forkful.

Castiel wanted to continue searching as well, but the fast food was greasy and left his fingers messy, and he did not want to sully Dean's keyboard, so he focused on eating instead. The burger and fries tasted incredible, especially given what Castiel had been living off of for the past week. When he'd first had to become accustomed to needing food, he had found it tedious and inconvenient, but he now had to admit that having a hot meal prepared by someone else—someone skilled—was less bothersome than usual.

He finished off the last fry and wiped his fingers on a napkin. It didn't quite remove all the grease.

"You still hungry?" Dean asked. "You can have my fries." He nudged the half-eaten container toward Castiel, which earned a bewildered look from Sam.

"Dude, are you possessed?"

Castiel glanced between the brothers, suddenly perplexed. Surely if Sam thought Dean was possessed by a demon, he wouldn't have asked outright.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Come off it, Sammy."

"You're sharing your food," Sam pointed out.

Dean scowled. "It's not like it's pie."

"No, thank you," Castiel interrupted. "I'm full."

Dean arched a skeptical brow. "You sure? Because I think you can afford to put on a few pounds. That sweater makes you look anorexic."

"It does not," Sam rejoined. "Cas, don't listen to him."

"But if he's cold all the time, putting on some extra weight will help," Dean pressed.

Castiel frowned. "I'm not cold all the time."

Dean blinked at him. "Then what's with the sweater?"

Castiel began to fidget. Dean really didn't like this piece of clothing. And Castiel had forgotten about the flannel shirts Dean had him pick out, and realized he should have put on those instead.

"I-I'll change," he said, and rose from his chair.

Dean's brow furrowed. "What? No, it's fine, Cas. My point was if you're anemic, you should eat more. Get more iron or something."

Now Sam was looking at him thoughtfully, which made Castiel feel even more uncomfortable. "Are you cold all the time?" the younger Winchester asked.

Castiel subconsciously reached his arms up to wrap around himself. "No. I'm really not."

"Then what gives?" Dean asked.

"I just prefer…it's comfortable…" Castiel clenched his jaw. What was he supposed to say? Certainly not the truth. Sam and Dean had seen his injuries, of course, but they'd been gone for a week, and Castiel thought that if he pretended they weren't there, it might somehow make it so.

"It's fine, Cas," Sam spoke up. "It does look comfortable." He shot his brother a pointed look when it seemed as though Dean wanted to continue the conversation, and thankfully the older Winchester shut his mouth.

But Castiel was already feeling too much internal pressure building from being scrutinized so much. What would he do when it was time to go to bed and he had to change out of the slacks and dress shirt? He couldn't do that in front of them now. They were all trying so hard to get past what had happened, and they were managing. Castiel didn't want to reignite the guilt he knew Dean felt if the Winchester saw the scars.

A rock dropped into the pit of Castiel's stomach. Oh no. How could he not have realized…he couldn't share a room with Sam and Dean. Not a night went by that Castiel wasn't plagued by nightmares. Some were worse than others, jolting him awake with a gasp to find sweat-soaked sheets tangled around him. It was easy to cover up the fact that he was having them at Bobby's when Castiel slept upstairs and the older hunter was confined to the ground floor. But in close quarters like these with two hunters used to waking at a slight disturbance, Castiel wouldn't be able to hide it.

But he couldn't _not_ sleep. The Winchesters would pester him if he tried to stay up all night, lecturing him on his body's human limitations. As if he wasn't already intimately familiar with them.

He could pretend to sleep—lay in bed but stay awake all night so Sam and Dean wouldn't suspect anything. That might be difficult, though, as frequent nightmares meant he was always tired and his confounded body often tried to pull him under even when he didn't want it to.

His heart rate started to accelerate as he panicked over what to do. "I'm going to shower," he said abruptly, and grabbed his bag before retreating into the bathroom for some privacy. He needed a plan.

What if he pretended to go to bed, waited for Sam and Dean to fall asleep, and then quietly resumed researching on the Internet? Or perhaps he could convince Dean to switch with him; surely Castiel wouldn't be able to fall asleep on the floor. But Dean would probably grow suspicious if Castiel insisted, and the whole point was to avoid further interrogation.

Could he sneak out and sleep in the back of the car? He'd have to make sure he snuck back in before either of the Winchesters woke up the next morning, and there was no way to ensure that.

Castiel sighed wearily. Perhaps he would be fortunate tonight and the nightmares would not be extreme enough to force him awake with screams.

He could only hope.

After showering, Castiel dressed in a pair of sweat pants and another long sleeve shirt. He then slipped one of the new flannel shirts on top, but after a moment of staring at himself in the foggy mirror, decided to put the sweater on as well.

When he finally emerged, the wrappers from their dinner had been cleaned up, and Dean was now using the other laptop. Castiel shuffled slowly to the bed and took his time folding his clothes and putting them back in the duffel. No one said anything, and the only sound was the clacking of keyboards. Castiel wondered what he was supposed to do with himself. And why did every single second of this new existence have to have an answer to that question? When he'd been an angel, he could just _be_. He could stand in the middle of the hustle and bustle of life teeming around him and just be still.

Sam suddenly closed his computer and stretched. "I'm ready to hit the hay."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, doesn't look like we'll find anything tonight." He shut his laptop down as well, and then the two began getting ready for bed and taking turns in the bathroom.

Castiel climbed into bed and sat there, waiting. Dean laid a blanket out on the floor and settled down, having borrowed a pillow from one of the beds. Sam eventually turned off the lights.

Castiel would have stayed sitting up in bed all night if the streams of headlights that occasionally streaked through the slits in the blinds didn't illuminate his silhouette. One of the brothers would notice.

Castiel quietly slid further under the covers and laid his head on the pillow. He stared at the shadows careening across the ceiling with every car that passed, and thought perhaps it might be easy to stay awake. But after an hour, he felt his eyelids beginning to droop.

He rolled over, then again when he felt himself getting comfortable. But the mattress squeaked and he stopped when there was a catch in Sam's breathing, as though the hunter was on the verge of waking. After that, Castiel held himself perfectly still.

Exhaustion tugged at him. He tried to resist, but his body eventually succumbed to its physical needs.

The transitions were always so seamless. As an angel, Castiel could tell the difference between reality and dream construct, but not as a human.

 _Zachariah loomed over him, an angel blade glinting in his hand, and Castiel felt terror flooding through him. The pain was a fiery throb through his body as he watched a bit of his grace dribble out through a series of bloody slashes on his chest._

 _Zachariah sneered, and then stepped back to make room for a new figure. Dean moved into view, expression twisted with smug triumph, just as it had been in the panic room. But this wasn't the panic room; this was the angel's green room, and Zachariah passed the blade to Dean._

 _"No, please," Castiel begged, and choked on a scream as Dean inserted the blade between his ribs and began to carve. The hunter twisted his wrist, curving the blade this way and that. When the sigil lines were completed, Castiel's heart exploded inside his chest._

He jolted upright with a gasp, heart pounding against his rib cage with enough force he thought it might explode again. He clutched at his shirt.

No, wait, his heart hadn't burst; his grace had. Castiel craned his neck around the room. For a split moment, panic surged through him again when he spotted the clock in the wrong place. But then he remembered that this wasn't his room at Bobby's, it was a motel room, and the lumps in the dark were Sam and Dean.

Castiel grabbed his pillow and shoved it against his mouth to muffle his heaving breaths. This was what he'd been afraid of. He was tremendously grateful that he hadn't woken either of them, but he couldn't just go back to sleep. The air in the room was too close and stifling, and he was having trouble breathing.

That might have been the pillow.

Forcing himself to suck in a breath and hold it, Castiel slid out of bed and pulled his boots on as quickly as he could. His lungs burned, and he risked gasping in another breath before standing and making his way to the door. He eased it open as quietly as possible and slipped outside.

The fresh air was a shock to his system, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he took a seat on the sidewalk curb. That had been one of his more intense night terrors, with Dean making an appearance like that. Castiel knew, once he was awake, that it hadn't happened that way, but it always seemed so real when he was in the midst of it. And the terror and memory of pain always lingered as though it had happened only yesterday.

Castiel dropped his head to his knees and took a shuddering breath, wondering if it would ever get better. He'd witnessed the intensity of Dean's dreams when he'd been an angel—and suspected that it didn't. And if that was the case, how on earth was he supposed to get through this hunt with the Winchesters?

* * *

Sam woke at the sound of the door snicking shut, and twisted around to see who had snuck out at this time of night. The other bed was empty, and for a moment Sam was confused. What the heck was Cas doing?

"Nightmare," Dean whispered from the floor.

Sam sat up straighter. Crap, he'd forgotten about Cas's nightmares. Had being on the road—or just in a motel room—stirred them up? Or…had they still been a regular occurrence back at Bobby's? Sam felt a pang of guilt for not checking on Cas while he and Dean had been away. Granted, they'd been wrapped up with the whole pagan god fiasco, but still.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Sam rolled out of bed and slipped his shoes on. Dean watched, propped up on one elbow, eyes glinting with pained regret in the small reflection of light. He may have wanted to do anything to help Cas, but this was one area those two didn't broach. Sam was the one who'd taken responsibility for being there when the nightmares woke Cas with screams and left him too shaken to go back to sleep right away. And in the black of night when it was just the two of them sitting in the dark, Cas had confessed what he dreamed about. Reliving Zachariah's torture was a given, but Dean sometimes played a role in them. And not as the rescuer.

Not that Sam had ever told his brother that, but Dean had been through Hell, literally, and could put two and two together, not to mention they'd both heard Zachariah's taunts about how this had all been Dean's fault. Which was why Dean wasn't the one going after Cas now, even though it was obvious he wanted to.

So Sam crossed the room, grabbing his jacket on the way, and slipped outside. Cas was sitting slumped forward on the sidewalk, shoulders shaking slightly from either cold or shock. Maybe both. That huge sweater could only do so much outside at 3am.

Sam sat down next to him, stretching his legs out. He didn't say anything, just gazed up at the few faint stars visible through the light pollution, providing Cas with a solid presence so he wasn't alone.

"I'm sorry I woke you," Cas finally said quietly, voice rough.

"Don't be." Sam paused. "Have they been bad this whole time?"

"No," Cas replied hurriedly, then swallowed. "Not…as bad."

Sam nodded in understanding. "Was it Dean?" he asked softly.

Cas didn't respond, but the tightening of his jaw and the way he ducked his gaze was answer enough.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Cas let out a frustrated breath. "It's illogical to be afraid of Zachariah; he's dead. And Dean…" His voice hitched, and Sam had no idea what he'd been about to say.

"There's nothing logical about trauma," he pointed out gently.

"Will they ever stop?" Cas asked, tone wrecked with defeat.

Sam's heart ached for him. "They get less frequent. And not as intense as often."

"Perhaps it would be better if I had a separate room," he suggested. "Or I could sleep in the car."

Sam shook his head. "It's not a big deal, Cas."

"We're hunting a Horseman; you and Dean need to be well-rested."

Sam held back a sigh. They had made progress getting Cas to open up to them when he was recovering, but it seemed that a week away from them had Cas reverting back to old habits. Sam supposed it made sense, even if it was a little frustrating. Cas didn't have to suffer in silence. But then, he'd learned that from the Winchesters, too.

"It's not like Dean and I don't still get nightmares. I know you don't want to bother us, that it's embarrassing sometimes, but it's better to wake up and know someone's there, that you're not back in that place, but with us and safe. And," Sam added with as much sincerity as he could emphasize. "Neither me or Dear mind being woken up. We promised to help you through things, so please let us keep that promise."

Cas's shoulders slumped further, but after a moment he slowly nodded. "I wanted to be better," he quietly admitted.

Sam reached out to clasp his shoulder. "No one expects you to be okay right away, or next month, or even next year. What happened to you was horrible. You don't just get better from that."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

Sam shrugged helplessly. "Keep trying, keep living. One day at a time. Dean and I are here to hold you up." He hesitated. "I actually think it might help if you two talked about it. I know it's hard, given what happened, but Dean's been tortured in Hell. He knows a bit about what you're going through better than anyone."

Cas let out a shaky breath, then after a long moment, whispered, "We should go back inside."

Sam didn't push the matter. He got to his feet as Cas did, and they silently crept back into the room. Dean was an unmoving lump on the floor, facing the wall, but Sam knew his brother was still awake. He wondered if Dean had been able to overhear that conversation through the thin walls, and couldn't decide if that would be a good thing or not.

Cas straightened his sheets out and then climbed back into bed. Sam did the same, but he didn't fall back asleep right away. Instead he lay awake, listening to Cas's breathing gradually even out, wishing his friend didn't have to go through all this. Being human was hard enough without all the other crap.

 _Welcome to life as a Winchester_ , he thought resignedly.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: More feels in this chapter, and then finally some action. I hope everyone has a lovely Christmas weekend!**

* * *

Chapter 4

Dean didn't get much sleep the rest of the night. He kept jerking awake at the slightest sound and listening carefully to see if Cas was having another nightmare. But if he was, they were silent ones.

When dawn came, Dean was the first one up and he immediately headed out to grab coffee and donuts for breakfast, wanting to avoid either a private conversation with Sam if his brother woke up next, or having to subject Cas to the humiliation of waking up groggy and disheveled after his obviously bad night. So Dean took his time, hoping that when he got back, both of them would be up and dressed and they could pretend like last night never happened.

Dean couldn't do that, though— _shouldn't_ do that. He'd heard Sam's muffled voice from outside suggesting that Cas talk to him about his nightmares. Yeah, that was a brilliant idea: have a therapy session with the guy who was probably torturing Cas in his dreams. Dean wasn't stupid. If Cas wasn't having nightmares about Dean banishing him to Heaven where he was captured and tortured, then he was probably having nightmares about Dean saying yes to Michael and the archangel being the one to torture him. All in all, not fun times with one Dean Winchester meatsuit.

But Sam had a point that Dean _did_ know what Cas was going through. The nightmares, the panic, the flashbacks. He'd been tortured in Hell for forty years.

The key difference, however, was his best friend hadn't been the one to send him there out of one stupid, careless act.

Dean sighed, and ran a weary hand down his jaw. He couldn't continue to ignore Cas's suffering just because he felt too guilty to look him in the eye. But he was afraid that talking to Cas about it would make things _worse_.

Well, maybe he could try. And if Cas shot him down, Dean would respect it, no argument.

He returned to the motel to find both Sam and Cas up and dressed. Cas had put on a pair of jeans and one of the flannel shirts Dean had bought, but he was wearing it over a turtleneck and then under a jacket that was halfway zipped up. If the dude wasn't freezing, then Dean had no idea what was up with him.

"Coffee and donuts," Dean announced, setting the bag and tray on the table. "Get it while it's hot."

Sam picked up a cup and sat down, immediately opening his laptop to resume their search. Dean could easily join him, put off what he wasn't all that eager to do. But he might not get another chance to talk to Cas before the next night.

"I'm gonna fill up the Impala," Dean said. "Wanna come, Cas?"

Cas paused in the middle of fishing a donut out of the bag, brow furrowing in thought. "Shouldn't I help Sam with the research?"

"He can handle it," Dean replied. "I can show you how to gas up a car." Because that was another one of those everyday human things Cas would eventually need to know how to do. And at some point Dean should teach him how to drive.

"Oh, alright."

Dean waved a hand at the paper bag. "Bring your donut." Even if Cas wasn't wasting away from malnutrition, Dean wanted to make sure the guy was eating enough.

Cas hesitantly pulled out a maple bar from the bag, and then Dean grabbed the remaining two cups of coffee to bring with them. He wasn't sure how long this errand would end up taking.

Cas ate the donut rather quickly on the drive and even licked his fingers clean. Dean made a note to file maple bars under the list of Cas's favorite foods. They pulled into the nearest gas station and Dean showed Cas how to open the gas cap and fit the nozzle inside.

"There's an automatic shut-off valve," he explained. "So when it clicks off like that, don't try to top off—um, don't try to add more. And tilt the nozzle up when you remove it so gas doesn't leak onto Baby's paint."

Cas was watching studiously and nodding along. "What if- if I make a mistake and the gas leaks…will it corrode the paint?"

Despite how seriously Dean took the care and maintenance of his baby, he did feel kind of bad for making Cas sound scared of even touching her. "Nah. And see those black bins between the filling stations? Underneath the lip on the side are paper towels. You can just wipe it off."

Cas looked relieved.

Dean finished filling the tank and showed Cas how to make sure the cap was twisted back on tight enough. With that done, it was time to head back to the motel, and Dean found his window rapidly shrinking. He started the ignition and slowly pulled back onto the road.

"So, um…" Crap, how was he supposed to do this? "Been sleeping okay?" Dean winced at how decidedly _not_ veiled and casual that sounded.

Cas stiffened, and dropped his gaze fixedly to his lap. "You heard," he said in a low voice.

"Yeah." No point in denying it. "I get it, man. After I got back from Hell…I didn't sleep through the night for months."

"I remember."

Dean swallowed uncomfortably. He'd sworn never to speak of this to anyone… "I still dream about it, you know. And, sometimes…when I'm not the one on the rack…Sam is."

It wasn't the same and Dean knew it. But he didn't know how else to talk about this shit. Why Sam thought it'd be a good idea, he'd never know, and he was already regretting it.

Cas didn't say anything for several long moments. Dean was driving five miles under the speed limit, but they'd still reach the motel soon. Maybe Cas was waiting him out.

Dean cleared his throat. "You don't have to talk to me about it. I don't have the right to try and help with this—"

"Dean," Cas said tiredly. "I told you I forgive you."

"I know that," he replied, throat tightening. "But that doesn't change the fact that you have nightmares about what I did. It doesn't change the fact that if I were the one to try to wake you up from them that I'd probably freak you out even more. Gut reaction, and that's okay."

Cas's hands clenched in his lap. "I don't want to be that way."

"It's natural, though. For those first few months back from Hell, when Sam and I were in the same motel room and he tried to wake me up…there were a few times I punched him." Dean swallowed hard. "There was one time I pulled my gun on him."

Cas whipped his head up, eyes wide.

"I didn't pull the trigger, obviously," Dean went on. "But it scared the crap out of me just as much as the nightmare. I upped the alcohol for a bit after that, just to make sure I stayed knocked out, even if it meant I was trapped in the dream."

Cas's mouth turned down. "Bobby wouldn't let me drink his liquor. Is that something I should try? Extra coffee in the morning would counter the effects, correct?"

"What? No!" Dean shook his head in exasperation. The motel was a block away, and he hadn't accomplished anything he'd hoped to. Not that he'd known _what_ he wanted to accomplish out of this conversation.

Cas's frown deepened. "I don't want to hurt you or Sam. I'd suggested I sleep in the Impala, but Sam said it was better to wake up with someone there. He didn't mention…your incidents."

Because his brother would never turn his back on Dean when he needed help. Or Cas.

"You're not gonna hurt us," Dean assured him. "For one thing, you don't sleep with a gun under your pillow."

"But I could react in other ways," Cas argued, brow creased in growing distress. "I don't know if I'm violent or not when I wake up, as it was just me upstairs while you and Sam were gone."

Dean sighed. "The worst I ever did was give Sam a black eye, and that's not gonna kill us. We've both had way worse." He pulled into the motel lot and parked in front of the room. This conversation had not gone at all well, as it sounded like Dean had just convinced Cas _not_ to let them help. He ran a hand down his face.

"Look, Cas, I don't know why I brought it up. Even after going through it myself—still going through it—I don't know how to help. I don't know how to make things better, and that kills me."

Cas looked away, mouth pressed into a thin line. "You- you don't wake up screaming anymore," he said hesitantly, almost like a question.

"Not most of the time, no."

"So…it does get…less bad?"

Dean's heart constricted. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It gets less bad."

Cas nodded slowly. "And until then…"

"I'll pull you out of it. But if you think that'll make it worse, Sam can do it. And…you don't have to talk about it if you don't want. Or I can leave the room, go for a walk, and you can talk to Sam."

Cas heaved a weary sigh. "I don't want to kick you out of the room in the middle of the night."

"I'll do it, though," Dean said earnestly. "Whatever you need, Cas, I'll do it."

Cas canted his head at him, the lines around his eyes crinkled with uncertainty and reluctance. "You and Sam are already doing so much to accommodate me…"

"Because you're family," Dean interrupted. "We do it for each other; we do it for you. No questions, no hesitation, no resentment. You're not an obligation. Yeah, I owe you for the shit I did, and I can never make up for it, but even if this hadn't been my fault, I'd still be here."

Cas looked away again, but not before Dean caught his eyes starting to glisten. His throat bobbed. "Okay," he said in barely above a whisper.

Dean let out a breath of relief. Even after everything they'd been through, there was still hope to work it all out.

Dean turned the engine off, and they headed back to the room. As soon as they walked through the door, Sam was standing up and shutting his laptop down.

"Hey, I found another outbreak of swine flu."

Dean pulled up short, having to mentally shift gears. Guess it was time to hit the road again.

* * *

Castiel loosened his tie a fraction. Dean kept notching it too snugly, claiming that federal agents didn't present themselves looking askew. But it was so _uncomfortable_. Castiel had never worn Jimmy Novak's tie cinched like a noose.

It was hard to believe he'd lived in a suit for two straight years. Now he thoroughly disliked wearing the garment. While he'd initially been flustered in jeans and other attire his first couple of weeks as a human, he'd gradually gotten used to them, and now felt unprotected without his extra layers, which he couldn't put on over the suit.

He wondered if having a coat like his old one would help. It would at least be permissible to wear an overcoat with the suit. And…perhaps it would make him feel like his old self, back when he was stronger and more confident.

Or, it could just as likely be a painful reminder of what he'd never be again.

Castiel reached up to loosen his tie more, but quickly put his hands down when Dean arched a pointed brow at him. They were currently at their third hospital interviewing the staff.

Well, Sam and Dean were interviewing the lead doctor; Castiel was staying quiet and attempting to look serious and imposing. Somehow it'd been easier as an angel. And it probably didn't help that he kept fiddling with his tie.

They'd been on Pestilence's trail for three days now, always one step behind the Horseman as they chased down outbreak of swine flu after outbreak. Castiel had continued to have nightmares each night, much to his chagrin. Mercifully, though, they weren't about Dean.

The older Winchester was always awake when Castiel jolted out of his bad dreams. Dean never said anything, but when he was sleeping in the next bed, he'd reach for a bottle of water on the nightstand and wordlessly pass it over. Sometimes he'd play with his phone, letting the LED display softly illuminate the room and vanquish some of the sinister shadows. When Sam was sleeping on the floor, it didn't seem to bother him.

That was another thing that was beginning to irk Castiel. After two days, he'd started to catch on that the finger game the Winchesters had taught him might be fixed, because Castiel still hadn't taken a turn sleeping on the floor. When he brought it up, though, Dean brushed it off as him simply never winning. And when it was Castiel versus Sam, Sam just patted his shoulder and told him it was a game of odds, and that eventually it would even out. He doubted that, but there was little argument he could make without sounding petulant. He just needed to figure out the game and how to lose. Which was sadly—and ironically—not as easy as it should have been.

Just like everything else.

"We haven't had any new cases since Tuesday," the current doctor was saying, and Castiel tried to pay attention. "It's the darnedest thing."

Sam nodded. "Well, thank you for your time."

"Actually," Dr. Stafford continued, "while you're here, there is something I'd like you to take a look at."

"Uh…" Sam flicked a glance at Dean. "Sure."

Dr. Stafford gestured toward an adjoining room. Castiel followed Sam and Dean inside, wondering if their cover was about to be blown if the doctor asked them to look at another medically related issue. Although, Castiel _did_ have a working knowledge of various pathogens. He'd spent time observing and learning about all of his father's creations, even the microscopic ones. Perhaps he could be of use if put to the test. If he could manage to speak articulately; he found himself growing more and more anxious after each failed attempt.

Dean crossed the room toward the window, sweeping his gaze over the empty patient bed and sterile counters. "What is it you need?"

Dr. Stafford shut the door behind him, and his eyes flicked black. None of them had any time to react before the demon whipped a syringe out of his lab coat and jabbed it into Sam's neck. The younger Winchester went down to his knees with a choked gasp, his eyes almost instantly rolling back. Dean surged forward, but a flick of the demon's wrist sent him flying into the wall and crumpling to the ground.

Castiel scrabbled to draw his angel blade, and then he charged at the demon, intending to end its miserable existence with one fell thrust. But as he stabbed the blade toward the demon's chest, the possessed doctor shot a hand up and caught Castiel's wrist, instantly stopping the motion.

For a moment, Castiel could only gape and sputter, held at bay by a single grip while he gritted his teeth and poured every ounce of strength he had into finishing the attack. Yet he gained no ground over the demon. The doctor squeezed, and pain ripped through Castiel's arm, sending a shockwave of numbness through it so that the blade fell from his fingers.

How… The last time he had faced down a demon, he'd possessed the strength to toss it about like a measly sack of bones. He could have shattered its spine with celestial force…with an angel's force. Now Castiel was the sack of bones and the one who could be easily shattered. Bobby's training had taught him how to use human weapons, even a few human combat moves. But it hadn't prepared him for the simple fact that a demon was now so much stronger than he was.

The demon possessed doctor sneered at him, leaning close so that his sulfurous breath wafted over Castiel's face. Castiel wrinkled his nose and tried to wrench away, but he was practically helpless.

The demon fisted his other hand in Castiel's suit jacket and hefted him into the air. His breath caught, and then he was flying, a sensation he'd never thought he'd feel again.

It only lasted a split second before he collided with the wall and everything went dark in an explosion of pain.

Awareness came back with a jolt, just like when waking from a nightmare. Someone was shaking him, too.

"Cas? Come on, man. I need you."

The voice sounded slightly muffled, but familiar. Castiel forced his eyes open so he could find the source. It took a few tries, and his vision was blurry at first. As soon as the fog began to clear from his brain, he registered the intense pounding in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut with a groan.

"Cas, hey, look at me."

"Dean?" He squinted against the harsh light haloing the hunter.

"Yeah. You okay? You feel nauseous or dizzy?"

Castiel frowned and had to think about it for a moment. His head was throbbing, as was his wrist, but that seemed to be the extent of the damage. "I'm fine." He tried to sit up. Dean was kneeling in front of him, suit rumpled. "Where's Sam?"

Dean's eyes darkened. "Gone. That son-of-a-bitch must have taken him. Can you stand?"

In truth, Castiel wanted to _not_ move, but Sam was in danger and so he tried to push himself up, but almost cried out as he put pressure on his wrist.

"Whoa, okay," Dean said, and grabbed his arm, fingers suddenly prodding at his tender flesh with deft purpose. Castiel instinctively tried to yank it away, but just like with the demon, his strength was no match for the determined hunter's.

"It's not broken," Dean said. "I think it's just bruised. Come on." He gripped Castiel's elbow and helped haul him to his feet.

"How long…?" he gasped, unable to finish the sentence. How long had he been out, delaying their opening for a rescue? How long had Sam been gone?

"Not long," Dean replied, though his voice was strained. "Maybe fifteen minutes. Bastard couldn't have gotten far."

Castiel hoped that was true, because he would never forgive himself if Sam was lost due to his failure to stop one demon. Even as a mortal, he should have known better, should have known how to adapt to his new limitations.

Dean stormed toward the door, and Castiel scooped up the fallen angel blade with his other hand as he hurried to keep up. On the off-chance his absent father might be listening, might care…he prayed they wouldn't be too late.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Happy Monday! Christmas is behind us and a new year is looming. I can't believe I've been writing in this fandom for two and a half years. 0_0 And still going strong! Of course, I have all you lovely readers to thank for inspiring me to keep going. :)**

* * *

Chapter 5

Dean charged out into the hospital corridor. The business on the rest of the floor seemed to be continuing as normal, no one the wiser about the little skirmish that had just gone down in one of the rooms. That, or there were more demon plants within the staff. There was no sign of Sam, and Dean was beginning to panic.

He stormed over to the nurse's station, one hand poised to draw the demon-killing knife if needed. "You see Dr. Stafford come this way?" he demanded, making the nurse behind the counter jump.

"Uh- he's transporting a patient…"

"Where?"

"D-downstairs, I think. I saw him get in the elevator."

She started to point that direction, but Dean was already taking off toward the stairwell. The demon would want to get Sam out of here, probably on the next train to Lucifer, and disguising Sam as a patient was a good way not to draw attention. Dean glanced behind him to make sure Cas was keeping up. The guy was moving a little stiffly and still looked slightly dazed from being thrown into the wall—it'd been his first time as a human. _Probably not his last_.

Dean wondered if he should be worried about a concussion given that Cas had momentarily blacked out. Dean had been thrown into walls enough to know that he was fine himself, just bruised. But if they weren't racing after Sam, he'd probably be insisting Cas get looked at by a doctor here—one _not_ demonically possessed.

Because now that Cas was human, he was vulnerable, and Dean needed to be looking after him just like he did Sammy. The shift in his world still took some getting used to.

Dean burst into the first floor lobby, frantically searching for Dr. Stafford or Sam, but seeing neither. Dammit, they couldn't have just disappeared! Outside the front glass doors was the drop-off and pick-up zone, but it wasn't like they would have hopped in a taxi.

Dean whipped his gaze around toward a side corridor that led to the ambulance bay. "Come on," he said to Cas, and marched through the lobby into the garage. They immediately found a paramedic arguing with the dispatcher.

"I'm telling you, he just took my rig. I asked for the transfer papers on his patient and he clocked me!"

"FBI," Dean interrupted, flashing his credentials too quickly for either guy to realize it actually said CDC. "Did Dr. Stafford steal an ambulance?"

The paramedic blinked at him. "Yeah, how'd you know it was him?"

"We've got a situation," Dean said as authoritatively as he could. "I need you to sit tight and not call anyone. That ambulance have a GPS locator?"

The dispatcher frowned. "Yeah…"

"Get it."

The dispatcher hesitated only a beat before he turned on his heel and headed back into the call center room. Dean returned his attention to the paramedic.

"What condition was the patient in?"

"Uh, I don't know. Guy was unconscious. But he wasn't hooked up to any portable units, so his vitals couldn't have been critical."

Yeah, the Devil needed Sam alive to say yes to being his prom dress. Dean wasn't going to let that happen.

The paramedic's gaze shifted to Cas, eyes narrowing a fraction. "You alright there?"

Cas straightened. "I'm fine."

"Doc hit you too?"

Dean frowned as he noticed some discoloration and swelling coming in on the side of Cas's temple. Any other day and Dean would brush it off as minor, which it probably was, but right now he was freaking out about losing Sam and facing the terrifying reality that Cas could have been seriously hurt back there. Or worse, killed.

"Check him out," Dean ordered the paramedic, pointing at Cas as he went to check on the dispatcher's progress.

"Dean—" Cas started to protest, but he was already walking away.

He strode into the call room and zeroed in on the dispatcher leaning over a computer monitor. "You got it?" Dean demanded.

The man glanced up. "Yeah. The rig is heading east down one of the old highways." He furrowed his brow. "I have no idea what he'd be doing out there."

 _Avoiding law enforcement_ , Dean mentally snorted. "Give me the GPS identifier."

Again, the dispatcher hesitated only briefly, but tore off a piece of memo paper and scribbled something down. "Here."

Dean snatched the note up and immediately pulled out his phone to punch the number into the GPS app on his phone. It took a minute to bring up the signal, but then he had an exact replica of the map with the moving red dot from the computer screen on his phone.

"Should I call for backup?"

"No," Dean said, perhaps a tad too harshly. "We've got a possible biohazard involved. My partner and I have got this." He turned and marched back out to the bay where the paramedic was flashing a penlight in front of Cas's eyes.

"He okay?" Dean asked, unable to keep a thread of worry from his voice.

The paramedic clicked his flashlight off. "Yeah, no concussion. You may want to ice—"

"Good, let's go," Dean cut him off, waving his phone for Cas to follow. He was immensely relieved that Cas was okay, but the longer they were delayed, the further Sam was getting away from them.

Cas jogged to catch up as they made their way outside toward where the Impala was parked. They both clambered inside and Dean turned the key in the ignition. As soon as the engine roared to life, he was gunning it out of the parking lot and careening down the road, one hand on the wheel while the other held up his phone so he could watch that little red dot move along the line of the highway. He pressed the gas harder.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas spoke up.

Dean took the next turn a little sharply, then shot him a perplexed look. "For what?"

Cas's mouth was pressed into a tense line. "For not stopping that demon from taking Sam."

"Dude, you got thrown into a wall."

"I should have known something was wrong," Cas insisted. "I used to be able to sense demons. Some of that should have…I should have…" He trailed off with a frustrated sound.

Dean's stomach clenched. As an angel, Cas would have sensed the demon from the start, would have smote the living crap out of it before it'd ever had a chance to stick Sam with that needle. But none of this was his fault now, and especially not because he was human.

"Sam and I have been hunting demons for years without spidey senses," Dean said. "Often that means we get our asses kicked, but that doesn't stop us. We compensate with smarts, and tools, and hell, sometimes just sheer stubbornness. You've got plenty of that." Dean cast him a sidelong glance.

Cas didn't look appeased. "I was once a soldier of Heaven. I helped lay siege to Hell. Now I'm powerless. I'm hapless and hopeless, and I see that I'm not ready to aid you and Sam on hunts."

Dean's blood ran cold as those words echoed from a memory he had tried to forget, of a future he swore would never come to pass. Except it was. Cas was human, and he may not have been high on drugs and courting women into orgy sessions, but how far away was he from that transformation, anyway? How long was it before the nightmares drove Cas to alcohol like it had Dean? Or to something stronger? And Sam…god, they had to rescue Sam.

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "You're _not_ hapless and hopeless and I don't ever wanna hear you talk like that again. You're just having to adapt, which you will. Shit, man, you adjusted to being at half power. You can do this, too."

Dean needed him to. Because if Cas fell further into this black hole of depression to the point he couldn't find his way out, it'd be Dean's fault. Zachariah would have succeeded in breaking Cas completely, all because of Dean's stupid mistake.

"I need you, man," Dean continued, voice breaking slightly. "I can't get Sam back without you. And I sure as hell can't stand against the Apocalypse without you and him." He swallowed hard, more memories flooding forward, unbidden, including how his momentary weakness had cost his best friend everything. Dean swore to never let Cas down again.

Cas didn't say anything for a moment, and then he was leaning forward to peer through the windshield. "Is that them?"

Dean squinted to see up ahead. Sure enough, there was the ambulance. He gave the Impala another burst of rpm. Baby roared like a beast and lurched with the extra power, tires devouring the road as they gained on the ambulance. Now came the challenge of getting the thing to stop.

Dean didn't want to ram it and cause a crash that would put Sam at further risk. But they also could not let the demon deliver the kid to Lucifer, because that would be much worse.

They rapidly closed the distance on the isolated back road. Dean slammed on the gas pedal again, pushing the engine into the red line. "Come on, Baby," he urged through gritted teeth. The ambulance's bumper rushed toward them. It was now or never.

"Hang on!" Dean shouted to Cas, and cranked the wheel, driving the Impala's nose into the back corner of the ambulance. Metal crunched and tires screeched as the van skidded violently into a one-eighty. Dean slammed the brakes and jerked the steering wheel back and forth as he tried to control their own skid. The Impala careened around until they jolted to a stop on the asphalt. The ambulance rocked slightly on the edge of the road where it'd come to a halt behind them.

Dean scrambled from the car, Baby's tires still smoking. The ambulance driver's door creaked open, and Dr. Stafford stumbled out. His eyes flicked black with murderous rage. Dean charged at him, ducking under the demon's first swing and delivering an undercut to the doc's jaw. The demon staggered back against the side of the ambulance.

Dean's instincts were yelling at him to draw Ruby's knife and take the bastard down, but in this case, it might be more useful to keep him alive.

Snarling viciously, the demon lunged at Dean, who hunkered down and shoved his shoulder into the dude's chest, flipping him up and over. The doctor landed with a thud and crack on the asphalt.

Cas was standing a few feet away, angel blade in hand and watching tensely. Dean didn't know whether Cas was just letting him take the fight, or if his confidence had really been that shattered.

Dean bent over to grab the doctor's lab coat, and hauled him up, only to throw him to the ground again at Cas's feet. "Watch him."

If Cas was nervous, he didn't show it as he moved in swiftly and pressed his blade against the demon's throat.

Dean darted around to the back of the ambulance and yanked the carriage doors open. Inside, Sam was strapped down on a gurney, sheet drawn up all the way to his neck. His eyes were closed.

"Sam!" Dean climbed inside and frantically started undoing the clasps of the restraints. "Sammy, hey, come on." He gave his brother a light shake.

Sam's brow pinched, and he tossed his head to one side groggily. "D'n?" he slurred.

"Yeah, I gotcha little brother." Dean ripped the last restraint off and then yanked the sheet away so he could check for injuries. Sam's suit was rumpled, but that appeared to be the extent of damage, save for the bruise on his neck from where the needle had been jabbed in. Shit, what the hell had the demon dosed him with? Dean could only hope it wore off soon.

"Let's get you out of here," Dean said, sliding an arm under Sam's back and hauling him upright. He almost pitched all the way forward, and Dean had to lunge to catch him. "Easy, easy."

Sam swayed like a sack of potatoes on a pendulum. Dean grunted under his gigantor brother's weight. Crap.

"Come on." Dean slung Sam's arm over his shoulder and started to drag him from the ambulance. Sam couldn't get his feet under him, and they both ended up sliding out of the back of the carriage on their asses. Then Sam nearly face planted on the asphalt. Dean let out an "oomph" as he braced him.

"Dean," Cas called. "Are you and Sam all right?"

"Be right there," he hollered back, hoisting Sam up again. That whole 'he ain't heavy, he's my brother' was a crock.

"Wh- hap'nd?" Sam mumbled.

"You got kidnapped," Dean huffed. "And I had to save your ass again."

They rounded the back of the ambulance, and Dean saw Cas standing with one hand fisted in the back of the demon's collar, angel blade still at the guy's throat. The demon had two new injuries, though—a shallow cut on his neck and a split cheekbone.

Cas's eyes widened, and he shifted forward as though to rush over and help before he remembered their prisoner. "Sam, are you okay?"

Sam lifted his head and squinted. "Mhmph," he replied unintelligibly.

"You can lay down soon," Dean coaxed as they stumbled the last several feet to the Impala. Dean opened the back door, and then eased his brother down to collapse into the backseat and sleep off whatever nasty drug was running through his system.

Dean bent down to shove Sam's long legs in, grimacing at how cramped it was back there. It was all they had at the moment, however.

He shut the door and turned back to the demon. There was a lot he wanted to do to the scumbag right then, but he had to set that aside for the moment. "Where's Pestilence?"

The doctor sneered at him. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Dean reached behind him to pull out Ruby's knife, twisting it to showcase the jagged edges. "Yeah, I would." He stalked forward until he was standing right in front of the demon, and angled the tip of the blade down toward one eye.

The demon tried to recoil, but Cas yanked his head back and moved his angel blade right up under his chin. Dean could see the meatsuit's nose hairs as his nostrils flared.

"You think you can stop Pestilence?" he snarled. "He's a Horseman of the Apocalypse!"

"So was War and Famine," Dean replied. "Don't see them running around anymore, do you?"

The demon bared his teeth.

Cas removed his angel blade and slammed the pommel into the guy's temple, then quickly replaced it under his chin. "Answer the question. Where is Pestilence?"

The demon gritted his teeth and growled. "Fine," he spat. "You'll just be walking right into his hands."

Dean grabbed the doctor's shoulder and raised the demon-killing knife threateningly. "Then get on with it and tell us where."

"There's a warehouse," he seethed. "For Niveus Pharmaceuticals. It's set to distribute a vaccine for the swine flu." He started to cackle in a maniacal way that immediately set off warning bells in Dean's head.

"What's in the vaccine?"

The demon chuckled. "Not a vaccine."

Cas frowned down at him. "What do you mean?"

He let out a garbled chortle and grinned up at them. "Croatoan."

Dean went rigid. No, not that. Not another piece to that damned future he was trying so desperately hard to prevent.

"Where's this warehouse?" he gritted out.

"Dralin County, Iowa." The demon's face split into an even wider grin, which widened the cut on his cheek so that a fresh rivulet of blood trickled down. "It's too late to stop it, but it'll be fun to watch you try."

Dean clenched his jaw, his fist tightening around the hilt of the knife. "We'll stop it. But you won't be around to watch."

He drove the blade into the demon's chest. Orange lightning erupted from the inside, spritzing throughout his skeleton as the demon threw his head back in a spasmed gasp. Dean yanked the knife out, and Cas let go, letting the body crumple forward on the ground as the dying light went out.

Dean lifted his head to meet Cas's eyes, both of them exchanging grim looks. "Come on," Dean said, turning to head back to the car.

They climbed into the front, and Cas immediately twisted around to check on Sam, who was out cold again.

"What do we do?" Cas asked softly.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at his brother. Sam just needed to sleep it off, then he'd be okay. Except for maybe a nasty hangover.

"We need to get to Iowa," Dean said. "Dralin County is about four hours from here. We'll go back to the motel and get our stuff, then head out. Sam should be fine by the time we get there."

He had to be, because they were gonna need all hands on deck with this one. If they didn't stop that Croatoan virus from getting out, then it wouldn't matter what they did from this point forward; it would be the end of the world with or without Michael and Lucifer.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sam woke to a cotton-filled mouth and a fuzzy head, his legs folded up and cramped. He felt the reverberations of an engine beneath him, the familiar thrum of the Impala. It almost lulled him back to sleep, except this position was actually kinda hurting. Moving, however, didn't seem doable just yet. Prying his eyelids open, Sam blinked up at two blurry blobs that gradually solidified into the backs of two heads, one darker than the other.

He must have made a small noise, because suddenly both of them were whipping around.

"Sammy?" Dean called.

Cas twisted around fully to peer over the front seat. "Sam, are you all right?"

"I…think so," he said slowly around a heavy tongue. What the hell had he had to drink? He managed to get his elbows under him, and started to push himself upright. There wasn't much room in the backseat, but he tried to stretch his legs out a little bit. His knees locked in response, and he bit back a stifled groan.

A glance down at his horribly wrinkled suit did not help fill in the blanks of why he felt so awful. Dean and Cas were also wearing their FBI threads. Hadn't they been interviewing staff at the latest hospital?

Sam reached a hand up and rubbed his face. "What happened?"

"Doctor turned out to be a demon," Dean replied. "Jabbed you with a needle and knocked us out. We caught up before he could deliver you to Lucifer."

Sam's stomach churned. He didn't remember that, but the fact that he'd come that close to falling into the Devil's clutches…a shudder ran down his spine.

He shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position to ease the aching in his joints. Outside, rows and rows of orchards whizzed past this isolated stretch of highway. "Where are we?"

"Crossing into Iowa," Dean said.

"The demon told us where Pestilence is," Cas added. "There's a warehouse set to distribute a vaccine to the swine flu he's been spreading, but it actually contains the Croatoan virus."

Sam jerked his head up. The Croatoan virus? Disguised as a _vaccine_? His heart nearly stopped. Mass distribution like that…the virus would spread exponentially with no way to contain it, and they'd have an actual zombie apocalypse on their hands.

"And we know where this warehouse is?" Sam checked. If they were already in Iowa, he had to have been out for a couple of hours at least.

"Yeah," Dean said. "We'll be there in another hour." He glanced in the rearview mirror to make eye contact. "Think you'll be good by then?"

Sam took a quick mental stock of himself. His head was killing him and his limbs still seemed somewhat disconnected from his brain, but he was awake, at least. He could pull himself together by the time they reached this warehouse.

"Yeah, I'll be good." Swallowing a pained grunt, he started looking around the floor of the backseat for a bottle of water or something. One appeared in front of his face, and he blinked dazedly for a moment as Cas also held out a bottle of pain relievers in his other hand.

"Thanks," Sam said, taking them. His gaze caught on some bruising on Cas's temple. Dean said the demon had knocked them out… "Are you two okay?" he asked.

He saw his brother flick a furtive glance at Cas. "We're good," Dean replied, though the second look he gave Cas kind of belied that. Cas looked okay, though, and it seemed like Sam had gotten the worst of it this time around.

They pulled over at a rest stop a mile out so they could change clothes and get their weapons ready. Cas suggested Sam get something from the vending machines to counteract the last of the drugs' effects. In fact, Sam was feeling a little queasy, but he was more surprised that Cas had thought of that. The former angel had also been very attentive in the car ride about handing Sam a second water bottle after he'd downed the first. Actually, come to think of it, it probably stemmed from all that time Sam had spent nursing Cas back to health after Zachariah's torture. Cas, unfortunately, knew exactly how unpleasant meds on an empty stomach could be.

After getting out of his suit and into jeans and a more comfortable shirt, Sam picked up a bag of chips from the machine. He ripped it open and scarfed down the food while waiting for Dean and Cas to finish up. His headache was a little better, and his brain was finally clear. When Dean and Cas re-emerged from the restroom, all three of them climbed back into the Impala, Cas wordlessly and seamlessly switching to the backseat. Sam appreciated not having to tuck his legs in so soon again.

It was late afternoon, early evening when they pulled up outside the warehouse of Niveus Pharmaceuticals. The cargo bay doors were open, and they could see stacks of crates inside. Demonic infection packaged as a promised cure.

"What do we do?" Cas asked.

"We get some C-4," Dean replied. "Wait for the place to be empty tonight and blow it."

Sam nodded along. They could call Bobby; he might have a contact in the area who could get them what they needed, hopefully fast enough.

Cas leaned forward between the seats and pointed over Dean's shoulder. "That truck is leaving."

Sam whipped his head that direction, and his heart dropped into his stomach as he spotted a transport truck pulling away from the building and heading toward the security gate.

Dean swore under his breath and pushed his door open. "New plan!"

Sam scrambled out after his brother, Cas not far behind. Dean hurriedly popped the trunk and began thrusting weapons at them.

"I'll stop that truck. You two take care of the guards. We have to do this now." Dean slammed the trunk closed and took off at a run to intercept the departing truck. Which left Sam and Cas to infiltrate the warehouse.

Armed with shotguns, the two of them darted across the lot to a side door. Sam pulled up short outside it, straining to listen as he caught a raised voice sounding from within. Someone was yelling for help.

Without further thought, Sam raised his shotgun and blew the lock off. He and Cas swept inside to find a group of people swarming another man as he futilely tried to fend them off. Based on their savage yet somewhat sluggish movements, they were already infected with the virus.

Sam fired again, shooting the one he had a clear shot at. Cas's shotgun went off next, felling another. The remaining two Croatoan turned toward them, presenting their chests as easy targets. Two more shots, and they were finished off. Sam then lowered his weapon as the man they'd been attacking stumbled toward them.

"What's happening?" he exclaimed, wide-eyed.

Sam shoved him toward the door. "Go, get out!"

The warehouse employee didn't need to be told twice. More screams echoed from deeper in the warehouse. Sam's heart rate spiked; there was no telling how many were trapped inside—or how many were already infected.

"Wait here," he told Cas, cocking the shotgun and starting forward.

"But Sam…"

"Make sure no infected get out!" he yelled over his shoulder, and burst into a run as the screams intensified.

* * *

Castiel clenched his jaw as Sam disappeared around a corner. He didn't like the idea of splitting up, especially so soon after Sam had been incapacitated earlier, but both Winchesters were skilled hunters and could take care of themselves. They'd proven that time and again. And they couldn't allow any infected people to escape into the general population, so Castiel had to guard this door and not let Sam down again.

He heard a shuffling sound, and whipped around just as a man came shambling into view. His eyes were dilated and manic, mouth parted as he chuffed hungrily. Castiel raised his shotgun and fired, hitting the Croatoan person square in the chest. The man went down with a thump and didn't move.

Castiel lowered his weapon and checked his rounds. Firearms seemed to be one area where the training and the field experience weren't that different, except these targets were moving. Still, it wasn't that difficult for Castiel to take aim and shoot down another infected person before they reached him or the exit. He was finally proving useful.

Another figure came barreling around a stack of containers, this one's eyes black as marbles. The demon charged straight for Castiel, who now knew not to overestimate his own strength. He also knew not to waste a shotgun round on the demon, and so tossed the weapon aside and reached for the angel blade in his jacket. Even though his last encounter with a demon had gone horribly awry, Castiel had been fighting with a blade for millennia.

He ducked under the demon's arms, opting for speed and agility over brawn this time. Castiel slashed outward and scored a gash down the demon's back. It roared in response and twisted around to retaliate. Castiel pivoted out of the way.

An invisible force crashed into the backs of his knees, propelling him into some wood pallets. Castiel gritted his teeth and kept a firm grip on his blade, even as the landing jarred the recent bruises. The demon stormed toward him again.

Castiel pushed himself up onto his knees and arched his arm back behind his head. With a flick of his wrist, he flung the angel blade end over end through the air. It struck the demon in the chest, blade embedding up to the hilt. His eyes flew wide as orange lightning electrocuted from within, and he collapsed in a heap.

Castiel staggered to his feet and started to hobble forward, but he pulled up short when an older, balding man casually stepped into view. His eyes were neither black nor wild with infection, but he skewered Castiel with a venomous glare.

Castiel felt something seize his lungs and squeeze. He gasped in surprise as his breath fled, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. Liquid tried to crawl its way up his throat. His head was suddenly pounding and his stomach sloshed violently. All of these sensations were wretchedly familiar, and ones he had hoped to never experience again.

The man stalked forward, stopping a foot away and crouching down to almost eye level with Castiel. "Well, look at that. An occupied vessel, but powerless." He canted his head. "Oh, that's fascinating. There's not a speck of angel in you, is there?"

Castiel struggled to lift his eyes. His muscles were quivering and he was barely able to hold himself up. Hot and cold were flushing through his body, and he felt every joint locking in place, as though trapped in a paralyzing spell. He wanted to fight back, wanted to resist Pestilence's influence, but it was futile. His angel blade was too far away, still sticking out of the dead demon.

And Castiel _was_ powerless. Again.

An explosion suddenly rocked the warehouse, and Pestilence jerked his head toward the source. Castiel strained to raise his head, but he couldn't see anything. He hoped Sam and Dean were succeeding in thwarting the Croatoan virus. By the rage blazing in the Horseman's eyes when he whirled back toward Castiel, that was probably a good bet.

Pestilence lashed a hand out and roughly grabbed Castiel by the chin. The resultant surge of nausea threatened to send him out of orbit, and he tried to curl in on himself as his stomach cramped. The pain almost made him want to die.

"I should kill you," the Horseman seethed, yet cocked his head in consideration. "But I think I'll let it happen slowly. Those filthy Winchesters can watch you wither up and die." He thrust Castiel away, and the former angel finally collapsed in a fit of vicious coughing.

Pestilence straightened and stepped back with a smug grin. "Welcome to humanity."

* * *

Dean stuffed another rag into a beer bottle, lit the end with his lighter, and tossed it on the last pile of crates containing the Croatoan virus. A few seconds later there was a whoosh followed by an explosion and breaking glass. It was fortunate he'd had a six-pack in the Impala, though a small part of him did rue the waste. _Not a waste_ , Dean reminded himself, as they'd just stopped what would have been an earth-shattering catalyst from effectively destroying the world as they knew it.

He watched the flames consume the last of the crates, blazing light from the burning trucks outside at his back. It still would've been nice to have one bottle left over for a celebratory drink.

Satisfied that none of the vaccine vials could be salvaged, Dean went off in search of his brother and Cas. He spotted a group of people in warehouse uniforms fleeing out a side door, and heard Sam's voice urging them on. Dean picked up his pace, rounding the corner just as a Croatoan infected person tackled Sam to the floor. His shotgun went skittering out of his hands, and the assailant immediately wrapped beefy hands around his throat.

Dean whipped out his gun and shot the zombie point blank in the head. He toppled over onto Sam, who gasped and shoved the body off. Scooting away several inches, he blinked dazedly up at Dean.

"Thanks."

Dean gave him a hand up. "I took care of the virus. Any Croats left?"

"I don't think so," Sam replied, bending to scoop up his weapon. "Any sign of Pestilence?"

"Doesn't look like." The Horseman was once again two steps ahead of them. Dean swept his gaze around. "Where's Cas?"

"Guarding the exit in case any infected tried to get out," Sam said, pointing the other direction.

Dean couldn't say why, but his gut clenched at that. It wasn't that he didn't think Cas capable—earlier that day he'd tried to convince Cas he _was_ —but he was also human and still adjusting, and Dean honestly didn't know how much Cas could handle at this point.

He fell into step behind Sam as they made their way to the other side of the warehouse. Dean saw the bodies first: several Croats with shotgun rounds in their chests. Then there was another body with an angel blade sticking out of its chest. Dean and Sam rounded a corner of shelves, and immediately broke into a run at the sight of Cas on the ground, slumped against the wall near the side door. He had one hand resting on his shotgun, the other clutched around his stomach. There was blood on the corner of his mouth.

"Cas!" Dean shouted, dropping down beside him and pushing aside his jacket to check for wounds. "What happened? You okay?"

Cas opened his mouth to reply, but then ended up hacking into his elbow. Dean gripped his shoulder to steady him. When he leaned back, there was more blood flecked on his lips. "I ran into Pestilence."

"What?" Sam sputtered.

Dean whipped his gaze around in search of the Horseman. "Where is he?"

"Gone," Cas wheezed, and Dean turned back worriedly. Cas was pale, but his eyes were fever bright. Dean's eyes widened in horror.

"Shit, Cas, what'd he give you?" Was it the swine flu? Or something worse?

Cas shook his head. "I don't know." He coughed again, grimacing as it apparently hurt.

Dean tightened his grip. "Okay, we need to get you to a hospital."

"No."

"Pestilence could have given you the plague!"

Cas leveled a surprisingly baleful glower at him. "Neither you or Sam would let this keep you out of the fight. I'll manage."

"You're not a doctor and not qualified to make a prognosis," Dean retorted. "We're going." He started to heft Cas up when Sam broke in quietly,

"Dean, if this is like with the other Horsemen…then nothin's gonna help Cas except getting Pestilence's ring."

Dean clenched his fists. "A hospital has meds that can help, though." His inflection rose at the end in an unintentional question.

Sam gave him a helpless look.

"We have to stop Pestilence," Cas said, voice gravelly yet firm, despite the slight hitch in his breathing. "I'm not going be the one to slow you down."

"Cas…" Dean protested, but he was quickly losing ground in this argument. "This is serious."

Cas pushed himself forward and started struggling to his feet. "Which is why we should go."

Dean and Sam each grabbed an arm to help Cas up. Dean didn't like this one bit. And how could he have let this happen? Cas had been human for barely a month and he was already infected with a potentially deadly disease, which was all Dean's fault. Because if Dean hadn't screwed up with the stupid banishing sigil, Cas wouldn't have been tortured in Heaven and had his grace cut out, which meant he wouldn't be susceptible to human illnesses now.

Dean was suddenly struck with the horrific realization that he was the cause of his friend's death. Even if they managed to stop Pestilence and cure Cas now, he could get sick again in the future. Or hurt on a hunt. Or he'd just die of old age. Dean had condemned Cas to life as a human, and no matter how much he promised to help Cas adjust and live this new life, the fact was it wouldn't be forever. Dean had taken a once immortal angel and given him a death sentence.

Dean's stomach almost revolted at the thought, but he swallowed hard and went to retrieve Cas's angel blade while Sam helped Cas out to the car. Cas wasn't dying today, not if Dean had anything to say about it. They'd get Pestilence's ring…and then Dean was going to kill that son-of-a-bitch.

* * *

 **A/N: Annnd, things got bad again. Cas just cannot catch a break. Everyone have a safe New Year out there!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you guest Spoocky for your review! (Of this story and "We're Brothers.")**

* * *

Chapter 7

Three more days on the road, and they were no closer to finding Pestilence. All they had was an unending trail of swine flu outbreaks, just like before. Sam wondered if the Horseman was going to try putting together another vaccine scheme. Otherwise, why bother? Why not jump straight to the plague or ebola? Though, the severity of flu cases had definitely increased, and there had been a number of fatalities, mostly the elderly and children, those naturally susceptible to the disease to begin with. That should put a rush on the demand for a vaccine.

Yet despite that, Sam got the sense that it was more like Pestilence was taunting them, personally. The outbreaks kept bouncing around the map like a ping pong ball, and Sam felt like they were chasing their tails. And all the while, Cas was steadily getting sicker.

Sam glanced over his shoulder into the backseat where Cas was slouched down, bundled in that huge sweater and wrapped in a blanket with his head resting against the window. He was terribly pale, save for the flush in his cheeks from the fever that wouldn't go away. The cough had burrowed deeper into his lungs and had a wet sound to it when a fit struck. The pain was worse, too, even if Cas wouldn't admit it—the way his face screwed up under an onslaught made it obvious. He should have been in a bed, not dragging himself across the state chasing dead end leads, but Cas refused to be left behind and neither Sam nor Dean wanted to leave him.

If the trail had taken them back into South Dakota, they might have dropped him at Bobby's, but Pestilence seemed to be hanging out further east, and they couldn't afford to take a trip so out of the way. If they didn't find Pestilence soon, Cas wasn't going to get better. Although, at this rate, the Winchesters were going to run him down faster than whatever disease he'd been stricken with would.

"Maybe we should stop for the day," Sam whispered to Dean. It was only late afternoon, but they were once again heading toward yet another cluster of swine flu cases that had started popping up yesterday. Pestilence was making quick work, and the truth was the Winchesters just couldn't keep up.

Dean didn't argue, but silently took the next exit toward a motel. Cas stirred when the car finally eased to a stop, eyes glazed as he sat up an inch and looked around groggily. The brothers got out, and Dean went to book a room.

Sam opened the back door and crouched down. "Hey, how are you holding up?"

Cas opened his mouth to respond, but then jerked as a vicious, hoarse cough beat him to it, and he pressed his fist against his mouth until it was over. Then he sagged back against the seat. Sam's stomach clenched at how exhausted that kind of spell left Cas, his labored breaths whistling every now and then. He reached out to pat Cas's knee in comfort, even though it was a futile gesture.

"Easy. We'll get you inside and make some tea in a minute, okay?"

Cas nodded. It was probably going to take everything he had just to get from the Impala to the room. Sam didn't know how much longer he could keep doing this.

Dean returned with a set of keys and pointed out their room number. It was two doors down from where they'd parked. Sam took a deep breath, and started helping Cas out of the car. Cas stumbled against him, bowing forward as another series of coughs wracked his weakening body. He clutched his chest and let out a soft, strangled sob.

Sam's throat tightened. He adjusted his grip and slung Cas's arm over his shoulder. "It's not far, Cas," he coaxed. "We can make it." He glanced up and saw Dean's worried gaze before his brother hurried ahead with their bags to open the door.

Sam half-carried Cas across the lot and into the room. Dean ducked around them and deftly pulled back the covers of the bed closest to the bathroom. Sam gingerly deposited Cas onto the mattress, grasping his shoulders to keep him from pitching to one side while Dean came around and removed Cas's shoes. Then they both eased Cas back to lay down, tucking his legs up under the sheets and drawing the comforter up around his shoulders. Cas shivered and closed his eyes.

Sam placed the back of his hand to Cas's forehead. Dammit, his fever was rising again. Nothing they did seemed to keep it down for long.

"We're going to destroy his liver," Dean muttered darkly as he dug through one of the duffels for the bottle of Tylenol.

A muscle in Sam's jaw ticked. Better than his brain frying. But Sam understood his brother's frustration. The fever reducers weren't doing much, although lowering Cas's temperature even one degree when it was approaching borderline dangerous was something. Still, there was little they could actually _do_ to get Cas better. Not until they ganked Pestilence.

That wouldn't keep them from trying, though. Sam plugged in the portable hot water heater on the kitchenette counter and thumbed through the tea bags for something remotely geared toward cold and flu symptoms. Luckily, there was some lemon ginger. Sam set aside two packets to make some tea with, and stuffed the rest in their duffel, having absolutely no qualms about it.

Dean found the Tylenol bottle and knocked out two caplets into his palm. Then he grabbed a water bottle and went back over to Cas. It took some coaxing, as Cas was groggy and drifting from the fever climbing, and he seemed confused about taking the medication. Sam came over to help hold his head up so he could swallow and not choke on the pills. He got them down, at least, and then fell into a semi-restless sleep. Sam went ahead and made the tea so the bag could soak for a while; the next time Cas woke up, he'd be ready to drink it.

Sam started puttering around the room after that, antsy with the need to do something productive, but not having anything, really. He could monitor the news outlets for more announcements of swine flu outbreaks, not that it would do them much good if they couldn't find a way to get out in front of Pestilence, predict where he was going to be next instead of flagging behind in his wake.

Sam got his laptop out anyway. What else were they gonna do?

He turned and frowned at his brother, who hadn't moved from Cas's bedside. Dean's mouth was pressed into a grim line, a haunted darkness in his eyes.

"Dean?" Sam called tentatively. "You wanna catch some z's?" Neither of them had been sleeping well the past few days.

Dean didn't respond for a moment. "I gave Cas a death sentence," he said quietly.

Sam furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

Dean lifted eyes heavy with grief and guilt. "Cas is gonna die someday. He's mortal now, and that's on me. I did this to him, Sam."

Sam took a moment to take in a controlled breath. "You didn't make him sick, Dean."

"If he still had his grace, he wouldn't be sick at all."

"Cas was a soldier of Heaven for millennia; I'm sure he's probably faced death plenty of times. Heck, he did die once already," Sam pointed out. "It wasn't like being an angel made him immune. We've seen angels die before."

Dean let out a soft snort. "Yeah, but now he's easier to kill."

Sam sighed. "We all are, Dean. That doesn't mean we crawl into a hole and wait to die. You and are hunters, and we both know how that life usually ends, but that doesn't stop us."

"And I've condemned Cas to that life too," Dean said bitterly. "And a bloody, messy end."

Sam bit back a surge of frustration at his brother's bleak attitude. Yes, things were bad. Yes, there was a chance not all of them would survive the Apocalypse…a very good chance. But that was their life. And there were good things, too, the things they'd been trying to show Cas since he became human. Like family. That was a reason to live, to keep on fighting.

"Cas chose to fight with us against the Apocalypse," Sam began softly. "You don't think he knew that would likely be a bloody, messy end for him? But he did it anyway." Sam hesitated. There was a way he thought they might be able to stop all this, but he wasn't ready to share yet. At least not with Dean.

"There's still a chance it won't end that way," he went on. "For the world, for Cas. And, Dean…I know what happened with Zachariah was terrible, but have you thought that maybe it's better if Cas is human with us?"

Dean shot him an incredulous look.

Sam spread his arms helplessly. "I mean, if we do manage to stop the Apocalypse, Cas _rebelled_. Do you really think he'd ever be allowed back into Heaven? He would have been cut off forever. Who knows, he might have eventually become human anyway."

Dean's expression shifted from disbelief to horror, and back to guilt. "Then either way, it would've still been my fault."

Sam shook his head in exasperation. "Don't do this to yourself, Dean. You can't give up yet. Not after everything."

"I'm not giving up," Dean replied, voice sharp with promise.

Sam slowly nodded. "Good. Neither am I. And neither is Cas. We'll figure it out. We always do."

Dean looked like he desperately wanted to believe, but was having trouble. Sam understood, had been there himself. Usually it was Dean he looked to for affirmation and guidance, but in this case, Sam could assume the role and be the rock his brother needed. That both his brothers needed.

Dean's phone rang, shattering the silence and the moment. He answered without looking. "What?"

Sam hoped Bobby had found a lead on Pestilence, something more than what they were already going on. Because otherwise Sam's optimism was nothing more than hollow promises.

Dean straightened abruptly. "How did you get this number?" he growled, which put Sam instantly on alert. "What? Where?" Dean paused as he listened.

"No way," he said after a few moments, and looked ready to say more when a muffled voice cut him off. Sam raised his brows at his brother, wanting to know who the heck he was talking to.

Dean gritted his teeth. "Fine. I'll meet you outside the Raven Motel, Jennings, Missouri." He hung up.

"Who was that?" Sam asked.

"Crowley," Dean scowled. "He says he has a lead on Pestilence."

Sam's jaw slackened. _Crowley_? And they were supposed to just trust him? Well, they had for the Colt, even though that had turned into a disaster. But Cas was fading fast, so Sam would take whatever help they could get.

"Okay, so we—"

"Me," Dean interrupted, a muscle in his jaw jerking. "Crowley said the only condition is you can't come."

Sam bristled with indignation first, and then alarm. "What? Then no way, Dean. You can't trust him." And what the hell kind of condition was that, anyway? _Sam_ wasn't allowed to come?

"We don't have a choice," Dean argued. "Besides, someone needs to stay with Cas." He cast a look at their friend, who was shivering under the covers.

Sam gritted his teeth. He didn't like this one bit—but the fact of the matter was they _didn't_ have a choice.

"You sure about this?"

Dean shrugged. "Guy doesn't want the Apocalypse any more than we do. I think we can at least trust that, at the moment, we're on the same page."

Sam clenched his fists. "Alright, fine."

Dean headed for the door, but paused with his hand on the knob and glanced back at Cas. Indecision flitted across his face before he squared his jaw, and turned and left.

Sam looked at his laptop and debated resuming his own search, but the lack of progress he was likely to keep having would only frustrate him more. He hated being so helpless.

A small moan from Cas had Sam crossing the room to check on him. Shit, it looked like the Tylenol wasn't working as well anymore. Sam went into the bathroom to grab a small hand cloth, which he ran under the sink until it was soaked. Then he wrung it out and returned to the bed, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and placing the damp cloth across Cas's feverish brow.

It reminded Sam of when Cas had been recovering from Zachariah's torture, and Sam had been the one to take on Cas's care, mostly because Cas was too traumatized to bear Dean's presence, and Dean was too overcome with guilt to face the former angel. It had been hard seeing Cas so broken and vulnerable then, and it wasn't any easier this time around. A part of Sam wondered if Dean was right, if maybe Cas would have been better having never sided with the Winchesters.

Cas shuddered, and then opened glassy eyes to look at Sam.

"Hey." Sam tried to give him a small smile, though it felt like it came out more of a grimace. "I made some tea. Think you can drink some?"

Cas slowly nodded, and Sam got up to retrieve the cup. He dabbed his finger on the surface of the water to check its temperature. It wasn't hot, but still held enough heat it should be soothing going down.

Cas tried to push himself up, but it looked like it took a lot of effort, and Sam had to set the cup on the nightstand in order to help him. He took the damp cloth away and propped the pillows up behind Cas, who still ended up rather slumped, but at least upright enough to drink. Cas took the cup in both hands and slowly sipped. He'd barely gotten any down when his eyes flew wide and he jerked. Sam grabbed the cup before it could slosh all over him as Cas bent double under the brutal strain of another series of relentless coughs. Sam winced at the horrible, guttural sound deep inside Cas's lungs. He probably had pneumonia at this point.

Cas sagged back against the pillows, chest heaving and eyes pinched in pain. One hand clutched at his ribs. Sam eyed them worriedly. Severe coughing like that could actually fracture something if it went on too long.

"Easy, easy," Sam soothed. "Want to try some more?" He lifted the cup of tea toward Cas's lips, but Cas weakly waved it away.

"I'm not doing very well, am I?" he rasped.

"You're doing fine," Sam assured him, trying to keep his own concern from leaking into his voice. He needed to be strong for Cas. Sam grabbed the cool washcloth again and wiped the sweat from Cas's forehead.

Cas's eyelids fluttered, but he forced them open and tried to look around the room. "Where's Dean?"

"Running an errand." Telling Cas about Crowley would only upset him, and that was the last thing he needed. "You just rest while we wait for him to get back."

Cas coughed again, and though it was a single small one this time, it apparently hurt, as Cas squeezed his eyes shut and choked on a distressed sound as his fingers ghosted over his ribs.

"Sam," he gasped. "Please make it stop. It hurts too much."

Sam's heart clenched, and he reached out to take Cas's hand. "It's awful for everyone, Cas, and when you're in the middle of it, it feels like it will never end. But later this will just be a bad memory."

"I have a lot of bad memories," Cas mumbled, turning his head into the pillow.

Sam swallowed around a lump growing in his throat. "I know. You haven't been human for very long and already you've gotten the worst of it." He squeezed Cas's hand tighter. "Don't give up, though, okay?"

Cas let out a pained wheeze. "I don't think I can survive being human, Sam. Constantly plagued by disease and pain. This immense _weakness_ , the lack of control… I don't want to live like this."

Sam's blood ran cold. Cas had been borderline suicidal after losing his grace, but things had been getting better.

"That's just the fever talking," Sam said, hoping desperately that was true. He knew how hard it was to think straight in the midst of overwhelming pain. "You'll get better, Cas. Being human isn't always like this."

"But I'll never really be human, will I?"

Sam quirked a confused brow. "What?"

Cas blinked blearily at him, eyes bloodshot and pupils dilated with pain—both physical and otherwise. "I'll never truly fit in among you. All I've done is take up space and disrupt the rhythm you and Dean have honed over the years. You work better without me around. At least not as this." He gestured vaguely at himself with a hint of disgust.

"That is not true," Sam said fervently. "Dean and I are glad you're around. And just because we all have to make adjustments doesn't mean it's not worth it. You're family now, Cas. Dean and I can't just go back to being the two of us. We wouldn't want to."

Cas coughed weakly, eyes watering from the pain. "It's just so hard," he whispered.

Sam's heart splintered. "I know. But you can do this, Cas. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you are one of the strongest people I know. You inspire _me_ to keep trying, no matter how bad things get. And fitting in? I've never fit in anywhere in my life. I'm a hunter, the boy with demon blood and psychic powers. The only place I've ever truly belonged is with Dean. And that's where you belong too. This family—" he clutched Cas's hand fervently, "—is all we need."

Cas gazed back at him, eyes glazed, but he seemed to relax a fraction. Maybe he found comfort in Sam's words. Maybe, God willing, he believed them. And then Cas slipped back into a fitful doze, and Sam prayed his brother would get back here soon.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you Cruelest Sea for the review and favorite! Only one more chapter after this.**

* * *

Chapter 8

Dean sat in the Impala, parked along a curb seven blocks from the motel, torn between rushing back to Sam and Cas, and stalling while he continued to process everything he'd learned while working with Crowley. He now understood why the Crossroads demon hadn't wanted Sam to come along. Crowley's lead on Pestilence had been a demon henchman of the Horseman—and Sam's friend from Stanford. Who had apparently been a demon plant from the beginning. The bastard had even been the one who'd introduced Sam and Jess for the sole purpose of breaking him when they later killed her.

Yeah, Dean was not going to share that information with his brother. It would only devastate him. The demon was dead, and Dean had avenged Jess on Sam's behalf.

He finally pulled back onto the street and finished driving back to the motel. They had their lead on Pestilence, and had to act quickly.

Dean entered the room and found Sam in a chair next to Cas's bed, computer in his lap. Cas looked asleep, but it was fitful, facial tremors indicating pain even in unconsciousness. Sam glanced up at his entrance.

"Hey," Dean said in just above a whisper. "How is he?"

Sam's lips pressed into a grim line. "Not good," he answered quietly. "Did Crowley actually have a lead?"

Dean could tell that Sam wasn't even still miffed about being excluded, his worry for Cas eclipsing his earlier indignation.

"Got a location on Pestilence," he confirmed. "We leave right now and we'll catch him before he skips town."

Sam immediately closed his laptop and surged to his feet, but then paused to look down at Cas. "Dean…"

"We can't leave him," he agreed. Not by himself and as sick as he was. Pestilence was only a few counties over, but that was too far to just leave Cas unattended. Even though it was cruel to force him to get up again.

Dean went over and gently shook Cas's shoulder. "Cas, hey."

Cas moaned, his eyelids fluttering blearily. "Dean?" he croaked. "You're back."

"Yeah, and I know where Pestilence is. Sorry, buddy, but think you can get up?"

"Oh." Cas blinked several times. "Yes, of course."

Dean waited, but Cas didn't try to move. He seemed barely lucid. Dean felt like a heartless dick, but nevertheless slipped an arm behind Cas's shoulder blades and hauled him upright.

"Okay, here we go. You can lay down again in the car, okay?"

Cas swayed as he dazedly tried to roll off the bed, not realizing his legs were still under the sheets.

"Hang on," Dean said, and quickly flipped the covers up.

Cas shivered with a juddering force, which triggered a coughing fit. Dean had to lunge forward to catch him before he toppled to the floor, and his heart nearly seized when a little bit of blood came up and stained Cas's hand. He shot an alarmed look at Sam, who was standing to the side, frozen in horror. Dammit, they were running out of time.

"Easy, easy, I gotcha." Dean rubbed Cas's back until he regained his breath, and then Dean crouched down to put Cas's shoes on. Sam stepped in, and the two of them heaved Cas up onto his feet. Cas sagged against Dean, and he staggered under the nearly dead weight.

"Shit, Sam?"

Sam braced Cas on the other side, and together they practically dragged him out to the Impala and eased him once again into the backseat. Dean reached in to adjust the blanket that was still there, tucking it around Cas's shoulders while Sam hurriedly went back to gather up their things from the room. Sam jogged back out with their bags and stashed them in the trunk, then darted around to climb into the front passenger seat.

"How far?" he asked.

"An hour," Dean replied, turning the key in the ignition and firing up the engine.

According to Crowley's source—after a few rounds of beatings—Pestilence would be there for at least another day. Which meant they actually had a chance to catch him.

 _Hold on, Cas_.

Forty-five minutes later, they pulled up alongside the curb in front of Serenity Valley Convalescent Home. Dean shut off the engine and glanced over his shoulder at Cas shivering in the backseat. They'd have to leave him here, but as long as they managed to gank Pestilence, he should then be instantly cured, just like what happened with Famine and War.

Dean pushed his door open, grunting, "Nothin' for it."

Sam looked grim as he followed. "A whole building full of people. We don't know who's human, who's demon, and who's Pestilence. So what do we do?"

Dean popped the trunk and pulled out a shotgun. "Assume everyone's a hostile."

Sam snorted. "We can't just shoot everyone."

Dean scowled at him. "Didn't say we should. But you've already been kidnapped once by a demon in a lab coat; that ain't happening again." He closed the trunk and headed for the building.

As they approached a side door, Dean slowed and peered inside at a security station. He passed Sam the shotgun. "Hang on."

Dean yanked the door open and swept inside, heading straight for the security guard station where a guy on duty was sitting behind the small counter, reading a newspaper.

"Hey," Dean greeted. "Hi. Uh, I'm looking for my Nana. Uh, her name is Eunice Kennedy."

The guard angled a slightly peeved look at him. "Go around front and see the nurse," he said tiredly.

"You mind just helping me out, sir?" Dean pressed. "Uh, she's about, uh, about that small—" He held his hand out at stomach level as he kept approaching. "—And gray hair, wears diapers."

As soon as he was within arm's reach, Dean lunged forward and sucker punched the guard. He went down hard behind the counter and didn't get up.

Sam came in. "Eunice Kennedy?"

"That's the beauty about improv, Sammy. You never know what's gonna come out of your mouth."

Dean moved around behind the counter and grabbed the security guard by the arms, then hauled him into the back office. Sam followed and immediately went to the security monitors.

"So, what are we even looking for?"

Dean joined him at the screens, scanning the feeds of various hallways throughout the establishment. They probably should have tried getting a physical description from Cas.

"Well, he's Pestilence, so he probably looks sick."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Everybody looks sick." He suddenly straightened and pointed at a distortion that appeared on one of the monitors around a nurse's figure. "Hey."

Dean leaned in for a better look. "Oh, now we're talking." He took the shotgun back and headed out into the hall, Sam on his heels.

The place suddenly seemed very empty, which wasn't at all creepy. They navigated the corridors cautiously, weapons raised and on guard for anything to jump out at them.

Out of the blue, Dean felt a persistent tickle bubble up in his throat and punch out in a series of coughs. Sam made a horrible hacking noise next to him. Crap, this could not be good.

They continued forward, even though Dean's vision was going blurry. Neither of them could seem to walk straight anymore, and they stumbled around a corner, coughing loudly and blowing any element of surprise they could have hoped to have. Dean pulled up short. The bodies of a doctor and a nurse were sprawled out across the floor, several different bodily fluids excreting from various pores. His gorge rose in the back of his throat.

Sam groaned. "Must be getting close," he said hoarsely. There was blood on his hand that he'd coughed up.

"You think?" Dean retorted.

They took a few more steps, both of them practically hugging the walls to stay upright. Dean couldn't even hope to shoot straight at this point. The shotgun grew heavier in his hands and everything was beginning to spin. He started sinking toward the floor.

"Dean?" Sam stumbled over and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him forward. "Get up."

But they only made it a few steps before they ended up tripping over each other and crashing to the floor. Dean rolled over, feeling like he was hacking up his intestines. He dropped his head against the cool linoleum.

Sam staggered to his feet, knife raised to the door they had fallen outside of. He lunged forward, reaching for the knob, when the door suddenly swung open. Dean lolled his head up to get a glimpse of a nurse with brown curly hair.

"The doctor will see you now," she said, and then stepped aside to reveal an older, balding man in a tweed coat perched on the edge of a patient's bed.

"Sam! Dean!" he greeted brightly, and beckoned them in.

Sam raised Ruby's knife, but then toppled over like a felled tree and hit the floor with a thud. Dean winced in agony as the nurse stepped back into view and dragged Sam inside. Then she came out and fisted a hand in the back of Dean's jacket. He wanted to resist, wanted to fight back, but everything hurt and his insides felt as though they were liquifying, and so he was completely limp as the demon nurse hauled him inside and deposited him next to Sam.

"Hmm," Pestilence mused. "You boys don't look well. It might be the, uh, Scarlet fever," he said, getting up and casually strolling over. "Or, uh, the meningitis. _Oh_ ," he added with glee, "—or the syphilis."

Sam rolled as though to get up, but only succeeded in folding in on himself again. Dean could barely see straight through his pounding head and bending vision.

Pestilence tutted. "That's no fun." He moved to step over Sam, grabbing a fistful of hair and wrenching his head back. "You boys set me back quite a bit with that stunt at the warehouse. Not to mention what you did to my brothers. So however you feel right now? It's gonna get so very, very much worse. Questions?" He thrust Sam back onto the floor.

Neither Winchester could have spoken if they wanted to, too wrapped up in agonizing torment.

"Disease gets a bad rap, don't you think?" Pestilence continued conversationally, walking over to a bottle of hand sanitizer and pumping a few dollops into his hands. "For being filthy. Chaotic. Uh, but, really, that just describes _people_ who get sick. Disease itself…very… _pure_. Single-minded."

Dean lifted his head and spotted Ruby's knife only a foot or two away. Gritting his teeth, he started stretching out a hand toward it.

"Bacteria have one purpose—divide and conquer." Pestilence pressed his foot on top of Dean's hand until the bones creaked under the pressure. Dean couldn't bite back a garbled cry. "That's why, in the end…it always wins." Pestilence kicked the knife away and removed his foot, and Dean gasped in a strained breath as he pulled his hand back to cradle against his chest.

"So, you've got to wonder why God pours all his love into something _so messy_! And weak!"

Dean managed to glower up at him, not that Pestilence noticed, or cared.

The Horseman shrugged one shoulder as though he hadn't just lost his temper. "It's ridiculous. All I can do is show him he's wrong, one epidemic at a time." He pulled a pair of spectacles from his front pocket and slipped them on. "Now…on a scale of 1 to 10, how's your pain?"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he writhed in misery. God, he felt like he was dying. Which he probably was. So was Sam. And Cas.

And Dean couldn't do anything to save them.

* * *

Castiel woke to darkness and freezing cold. A violent shiver wracked his frame, and he grasped desperately at the blanket that had pooled around his torso. Where was he? He tried to lift his head, only for a vicious coughing fit to punch its way up from his chest. Castiel cried out as the brutal hacking felt like a hammer against his brittle ribs. Hot moisture blurred his vision as he collapsed back against the leather, utterly spent.

Wait, leather… He blinked furiously and squinted in the dim glow from a nearby street light. He was in the Impala. The engine wasn't running, though. Everything was quiet. Where were Sam and Dean?

Castiel pushed himself upright with tremendous effort, and looked around. He saw a lit sign for a convalescent home, lights on within the building. Why would…? Castiel tensed in realization. Of course; he vaguely remembered Dean saying he knew where Pestilence was, and this must be it. A nursing home would be an ample target for the Horseman of disease and affliction. Sam and Dean must have gone inside to confront him. But how long had they been in there?

Castiel shivered again. The car felt frigid, but that could have been his fever and not a sign of how much time it had been sitting idle. Still, the Winchesters could be in trouble. Castiel knew first-hand how deadly and debilitating Pestilence's power could be. Sam and Dean might need help.

Castiel pushed against the door, the effort making his head swim. How was it so much heavier than he remembered? Was he really that weak and pathetic?

He finally managed to shove it open, and almost tumbled out onto the pavement. The night air seared his lungs, and he doubled over under another assault of coughing. The pain alone almost brought him to his knees in abject defeat, but he reminded himself that Sam and Dean were probably in danger, and he couldn't give up now.

Forcing himself to stand, he let the blanket that'd been draped over him pool across the ground, and then he was staggering toward the hospital doors. He vaguely noted that he should have a weapon of some kind, but the thought was fleeting, as every ounce of strength and focus was devoted to putting one foot in front of the other.

Once inside the building, the walls seemed to warp and bend, and Castiel shot out a hand to keep himself from pitching sideways with them. There was no one around that he could see, which was strange. It was also eerily quiet. He shuffled forward, stumbling from wall to wall as he made his way deeper into the hospital.

He came across a corridor with two bodies on the floor, blood and vomit pooled around them. In the back of his mind, Castiel knew that this was what he had to look forward to. This gruesome, mortal death. Anger and bitterness stirred within him, and Castiel felt the heat of fire deep down, and something darker, just like he'd felt after he'd first become human—the least he could do was take Pestilence down with him.

But with the next step he took, his legs buckled and he crashed to the floor, moaning as the impact jarred his bruised ribs. Footsteps echoed in his ears, and he squinted under the harsh fluorescent lights as a figure approached. He opened his mouth to beg for help, but the woman merely sneered down at him, and his hope crumbled.

"Well, well," the demon said. "Another patient. Won't the doctor be pleased."

Castiel tried to get up, tried to raise an arm in defense, but the nurse swatted him down easily. Grabbing the back of his neck, she began to drag him down the hall. Castiel's legs trailed uselessly behind him, and he couldn't muster the strength to put up any measure of resistance. Why had he come in here? Why had he thought he could do anything in his condition? He was just going to get himself killed, or distract the Winchesters and get them killed.

The demon hauled him into a room and threw him on the floor. Castiel immediately felt the overpowering presence of disease and death, and nearly threw up on the spot.

"C-Cas?" someone grunted.

He turned his head to find Sam and Dean curled up on the floor, writhing in pain.

"Hello again," a chillingly familiar voice said. Footsteps tapped over linoleum as Pestilence strode forward. "How are you enjoying humanity?"

Pestilence knelt down and grasped Castiel's chin roughly. The surge of his organs revolting was immediate, and blood erupted up through his esophagus and out his mouth, running down his chin and Pestilence's hand like paint. Castiel's stomach cramped so severely he instantly wanted to die.

"Cas!" Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Dean push himself up. If the Winchester had meant to tackle the Horseman, all he managed was to stumble against him before falling to the floor again and clutching his abdomen.

Pestilence released Castiel and turned an unimpressed moue on the hunter. "Got your second wind there, huh fella? That happens sometimes." He braced a hand on a metal cart and leaned down to leer at Dean. "Usually right before the final decline."

Something glinted to Castiel's right, and he furrowed his brow at the demon-killing knife. It was so close…

Gritting his teeth and swallowing a splash of copper tang, he lunged for the blade, managing to scoop it up. With one last burst of strength, Castiel threw himself at Pestilence and grabbed his hand, pinning it to the cart. The Horseman jerked in surprise, but couldn't react before Castiel sliced the knife right across all four fingers, including the one wearing his ring.

Pestilence shrieked in pain and jerked away, leaving his severed digits on the cart. His demon minion screeched and threw herself at Castiel. He fell backward under the assault, smacking his head against the floor and darkening his vision. At least the Winchesters were safe, and Castiel didn't remain conscious long enough to suffer the demon woman's vengeance.

* * *

 **A/N: I actually AM sorry for that cliffhanger. I honestly hadn't meant to end the chapter there, but that's how things played out. And hey, this way we get extended comfort in the last chapter.**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Dean's internal organs immediately unclenched from their spasms the moment Pestilence was de-ringed, but his mind was slower to follow, still wrapped in the agony of phantom pain. Dean let out a gasp and tried to roll over. He needed to get up, needed to fight.

But the Horseman didn't attack. Clutching the bloody stumps of his hand against his chest, Pestilence stood in the corner, shaking tremulously like a pathetic old geezer. He managed to deliver one last baleful glare, and then disappeared. Third one down, Dean thought with a small measure of triumph.

He rolled over, only for his heart to drop into his stomach at the sight of the demon nurse lying on top of Cas, neither of them moving.

Dean crawled over and shoved the woman off. Her eyes were wide open and vacant, the demon-killing knife sticking out of her chest. Cas's eyes were closed, his chin stained with blood.

 _No, no, no_.

"Cas." Dean patted his cheek.

Sam dragged himself over, expression tight with worry as he felt for a pulse.

Cas moaned and his eyelids fluttered. Dean nearly sagged in relief.

But then Cas let out a small cough, and instantly curled onto his side with a choked sound of pain. Both Dean and Sam gripped his shoulders to brace him, exchanging terrified looks—defeating Pestilence was supposed to have cured him!

"Cas, hey, look at me." Dean reached down to cup his face, trying to coax Cas into opening his eyes again. He actually didn't feel that hot…

Cas's lids dragged upward, and his eyes weren't glazed with fever, either.

"Cas, how do you feel?" Sam asked urgently.

His face pinched. "Awful."

Dean's chest tightened with fear. "You still feel sick?"

Cas furrowed his brow and blinked a few times before responding. "I- I don't think so… My chest hurts…and I think I'd rather be unconscious. But…I don't feel…like I did a few minutes ago." His eyelids fluttered again and he tried to crane his neck around. "Has it only been a few minutes?" He seemed to notice the blood on his chin, and reached up to wipe it off with his sleeve.

Dean still wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. Was Cas still sick, or cured? Should they take him to a hospital now? He _did_ look better. Though, it wasn't hard to look better than death warmed over.

"Yeah, only a minute." He spotted the ring on the floor nearby, and snatched it up. "You did good, man. You ganked Pestilence." Dean felt a swell of pride for the former angel, who had not only taken down a Horseman singlehandedly, but done it on the brink of death. That was pretty badass.

Cas's lips curved in a faint smile. "And you and Sam are okay?"

"We're fine," Dean assured him. He glanced at his brother and lowered his voice, even though Cas could obviously still hear him. "What should we do?"

Frowning, Sam placed the back of his hand against Cas's brow and held it there for a long moment. "I'm pretty sure you don't have a fever anymore." He eyed Cas critically. "Your ribs hurt?"

Cas nodded. "Am I still ill?" he asked, a trace of fear in his voice.

"I don't think so," Sam said. "But all that coughing left your diaphragm bruised. It'll heal in a few days."

Cas let out a lengthy sigh, only to grimace as that little movement apparently caused pain as well. "It's always going to take 'a few days,' isn't it?"

Sam gave him a sympathetic wince. "Yeah, pretty much."

Dean patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, Cas. We'll get you a bed and the remote, and you can get some real rest for a few days without us dragging your ass all over the mid-west."

Cas frowned and immediately tried to sit up. "I'm well enough to travel," he protested. "I can still help with the hunt—"

"We don't even have a lead on Death," Sam cut him off. "And I think Dean and I need to recoup after this one, too." He turned to Dean. "Right?"

"Absolutely." Dean wanted a drink, or four…except the memory of his stomach trying to turn inside out while still inside his body was kind of stirring up the nausea again. Maybe some 7-Up would be better.

He looped his arm under Cas's, Sam taking his other side, and hauled him upright. Cas tried to bite back a grunt, but didn't quite succeed.

"Easy, buddy," Dean said, guiding him toward the door. They carefully sidestepped around the bodies and made it outside to the Impala. Dean frowned when he spotted the back door hanging open, but decided not to say anything. Cas had been delirious with fever when he'd come in after them—and Dean should have berated him for that stunt to begin with, except he'd saved all their asses.

He and Sam helped Cas slide into the backseat, and Dean scooped up the blanket from the ground. It was colder than Cas was now, so he merely threw it onto the floor. They'd find a warm place to hole up in for a while soon.

Dean actually drove a few miles away from the convalescent home before finally stopping at a motel, wanting to put some distance between it and them for when the authorities found the mess inside. He made sure to rent a room with a kitchenette, complete with microwave and mini refrigerator, as he planned to stock up on cold and flu stuff so Cas could recuperate properly. While it seemed pretty clear that Cas wasn't sick anymore, he was still weakened after the whole ordeal, and walking from the car to the room had tired him out pretty thoroughly.

"I'm gonna do a store run," Dean announced. "Stock up on food for our stay."

Sam quirked a brow at him. "Dean, I don't think a bunch of Chinese leftovers is the best idea." His hand fluttered against his stomach.

Dean's own gurgled unpleasantly. Dammit, if Pestilence had ruined a bunch of different meals for them, Dean was gonna be pissed.

"I was thinking chicken noodle soup," he said, nodding to Cas, who was sitting on the bed and looking ready to fall over.

Sam perked up. "Oh, pick up some honey to go with the tea."

"Got it."

Dean headed out. At the store, he grabbed several cans of soup, along with some paper bowls to microwave it in. And a can opener. It'd been a while since he'd done this, but he still remembered the necessities from when he'd had to take care of Sammy and Dad wasn't around. He also bought some pop-tarts, heat wraps, and instant ice packs.

When he got back to the room, he found Sam puttering around and heard the water in the shower running. The bathroom door was open a tiny crack, presumably for Sam to check on Cas since he'd seemed a bit wobbly on his feet.

"Got everything we need for a few days," Dean said, putting the grocery bags on the small table. He glanced at Cas's sweater draped over the back of a chair. There were several spots and smears of blood on it—Cas's own that he'd coughed up, along with some from the demon nurse he'd stabbed.

"Guess we can chuck this ugly-ass thing," he commented.

Sam looked over with a frown, then darted a furtive glance at the bathroom. "Um, Dean," he said quietly, moving toward the table. "I don't think the sweater is a fashion statement."

"Yeah, because it's a fashion travesty."

Sam rolled his eyes. "No," he hissed. "I mean…I think Cas likes that sweater because it's…like a safety blanket or something."

Dean stared dubiously at his brother. "What, like because he doesn't have the trench coat anymore?" Maybe Dean should have bought him a replacement.

Sam heaved an exasperated sigh. " _No_. Because of…" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Because of the scars."

Dean's throat automatically constricted at the mention of Cas's scars. Dean had seen them when they were fresh wounds, evidence of unimaginable torture and brutality. They were the kind of scars that left marks on the soul, not just the body. He glanced at the bulky, heavy sweater in a new light. _Damn_.

Dean gingerly picked up the article of clothing. "I'll- I'll go wash this."

Sam gave him a sympathetic look. "We could just buy him another one."

Dean shook his head. "No. No, I can do this for him." He swallowed around the lump growing in his throat. "You got everything you need for a couple hours?"

Sam's mouth turned upward in a small smile. "Yeah, we're good."

Dean looked up the nearest laundromat on his phone, and then collected the rest of their laundry before heading out. It was a good thing he and Sam were well-practiced with removing bloodstains from clothes, and it took Dean less time than he'd anticipated to clean the soiled sweater.

By the time he returned to the motel, Cas was tucked in bed, multiple pillows propping him up, and the television playing some documentary from the History channel or something. He had a paper bowl of steaming soup sitting in his lap. Sam was at the table, clacking away at his laptop while he nibbled on a pop-tart.

Cas looked over at Dean's entrance as he set the bag of laundry down, and frowned when he pulled out the sweater from the top.

"I got the blood stains out," Dean said by way of greeting. "It still needs to dry, though. I didn't want to throw it in a machine and risk it shrinking." He draped the sweater over the back of the chair again.

Cas's brow furrowed further. "Y- you washed it? I thought you didn't like that sweater."

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "But you do. And bloodstains are nothing. Sam and I have lots of practice getting them out." He couldn't help casting an assessing eye over Cas's current clothes. He was wearing the flannel Dean had bought, but again, two shirts at the same time; the contrasting colors showed on one collar poking out underneath the other. Dean knew the wounds were healed, but he wondered if the scars were still sensitive, or if it was purely a psychological thing for Cas to pad himself like that.

It was a topic for another time, however, when Cas was feeling better. And in the meanwhile, Dean would stop giving him a hard time about the sweater. Maybe he'd even buy Cas another one.

Dean went to the shopping bags to grab a package of pop-tarts for himself, and then went over to plop on the other bed, putting his feet up. "So, what are we watching?"

"A documentary on America's Civil War," Cas replied.

"Cas said he observed it back when his garrison was watching earth," Sam mentioned casually, though Dean knew his brother well enough to detect the slightly pointed tone behind the statement.

Dean leaned back against the headboard. It wasn't _Dr. Sexy_ , but he'd survive. "That mean you can tell me what they get wrong?"

Cas canted his head thoughtfully. "Well, they have tried their best to reconstruct events from historical data, but there _are_ some discrepancies…"

Dean settled in for a history lesson, glad that for once in what seemed like a long while, Cas seemed to be engaged and enjoying himself. His family was safe again, and that's all that really mattered.

* * *

Sam was right that after a few days, Castiel's ribs started feeling better and it didn't hurt to breathe anymore. The soup and tea soothed his raw throat from all the coughing, and resting in a soft bed did do wonders for his exhaustion. Yet for all his restored health, Castiel couldn't shake the feeling of despondency hanging over him like a dark shroud. He could easily contract another illness in the future and have to go through this misery all over again.

Castiel didn't know if he could bear it.

Dean had taken the Impala to fill the tank with gas. Now that Castiel was mostly on the mend, they'd be heading out again, three individuals against an Apocalypse of cosmic proportions.

Castiel finished packing his clothes in his duffel. He was wearing the sweater again, and was more grateful than he wanted to admit that Dean had managed to salvage it.

Sam stacked his and Dean's bags by the door, then turned around, mouth pressed into a pensive frown. "Hey, Cas, how are you doing?"

"Fine," he replied. "I have not experienced a relapse."

"Yeah, no, I meant, uh…" Sam shifted his weight as though in discomfort. "With… _you_. You know, emotionally. With adjusting to being human."

Castiel stilled his hands. It amazed and sometimes aggravated him how perceptive the younger Winchester could be.

"It's just," Sam went on. "When you were sick, your fever was pretty high, but you said…"

Castiel frowned. What had he said? Oh, yes. Something along the lines of not wanting to live in this decrepit state. He still felt that way, to a degree. But he was not 'thinking of killing himself' as Dean had once asked him.

Castiel let out a wearied sigh. "Every time I think I'm becoming accustomed to being human, I'm met with another complication," he admitted. "I just feel like…I will never _not_ struggle with something or other."

Sam gave him a sympathetic half-smile. "That's…life. Struggles are a part of it."

Castiel nodded solemnly. "Life is a terminal illness."

Sam's mouth turned down. "Cas…"

"I'm sorry, Sam," he interrupted. "I know you and Dean are trying to be patient with me. I'm just not sure I can do this."

Sam opened his mouth, probably to once again heap reassurances upon Castiel, but he barreled on first.

"But I promised you and Dean I would try. So I will."

Sam's expression shifted to relief coupled with understanding. "Good. Because me and Dean need you around." He hesitated, and glanced out the window as though searching for something. "Actually, Dean's really gonna need you. Because- because I've been thinking about Lucifer and the Cage. And…" Sam took a deep breath and let it out. "What if we open the Cage, and I jump in."

Castiel blinked owlishly at him for several long moments, not sure he had heard that correctly. "You want to say yes to Lucifer, and then jump in the hole?" he asked.

Sam huffed out a strangled laugh. "Yeah. Go ahead and tell me it's the worst plan you ever heard."

Castiel opened his mouth, but stopped. This had never occurred to him, because it was wild and insane and…so like a Winchester.

"Of course," Castiel finally spoke. "I am happy to say that if that's what you want to hear." He paused, chewing on this train of thought. "But it's not what I think."

Sam's eyes widened. "Really?"

"You and Dean have a habit of exceeding my expectations. You have remarkable strength, Sam. More than I could ever hope to have." And here Castiel's chest tightened at the implications of this plan. "Maybe you could resist Lucifer, but there are things that you would need to know."

Sam still looked a bit stunned. "Like?"

"Michael is likely using your brother Adam as a vessel."

Sam winced. "We were trying not to think of that."

Castiel leveled a grave look at him. "Sam…if you say yes to Lucifer and then fail…this fight will happen. And the collateral…it'll be immense. There's also the demon blood."

Sam stiffened. "What? What are you talking about?"

"To take in Lucifer, it would be more than you've ever drunk." Castiel knew how hard it had been for Sam to give up the demon blood, not to mention Dean would not be happy about this. He wouldn't be happy with the idea _at all_.

"But…why?" Sam asked.

"It strengthens the vessel. Keeps it from exploding."

"But the guy he's in now—"

"He's drinking gallons," Castiel informed him. It was the only way Lucifer's current body, who wasn't his true vessel, could sustain the archangel for this long. And Castiel had already witnessed signs of decay when he'd encountered the Devil at Carthage.

Sam's throat bobbed, and Castiel could see the doubt warring in his eyes.

"Sam," Castiel said quietly. "You do understand what jumping into the Cage means."

His jaw clenched, but he nodded. "I do, Cas. It means stopping the Apocalypse and saving the world. I let Lucifer out; it's only right I put him back."

Castiel gazed at him sadly. "I suppose it makes me a 'heartless dick,' as Dean would say, but I don't want you to."

Sam's lips twitched in a small smile. "That's not heartless."

"It's selfish. As a battle strategist, I know this is the way to win the war."

Sam nodded. "I figured as much."

Castiel's heart twinged with grief. He'd been so consumed with the thought of himself not surviving this war, of not surviving being human…he'd never even once entertained the horrifying thought that one of the Winchesters wouldn't either.

Resolve filled Sam's eyes then, and he lifted his chin. "I know I promised to be there, Cas, to help you with everything about being human. I don't think that's gonna happen."

Castiel's throat tightened until it was becoming difficult to breathe again.

"But you'll still have Dean. And he's gonna need you. You'll need each other. And you'll both be fine." Sam took a step forward and clasped Castiel's shoulder. "That, I still have faith in."

Castiel swallowed hard, and nodded, unable to speak. At the sound of the Impala's engine pulling up, Sam drew back and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Then he was picking up their bags and sweeping out of the room.

Castiel felt a heavy dread settle over him as he grabbed his duffel and followed.

Dean got out of the car. "I just talked to Bobby. He says he knows where Death is going to be."

"Really?" Sam said. "How?"

Dean shrugged. "Don't know, but let's get on it."

Sam hurriedly stowed the bags in the trunk, holding it open for Castiel to bring his over as well. They shared a sorrowful, yet resigned look, and then Sam was moving around to climb into the front passenger seat.

Castiel slid into his place in the back. He took a deep breath, and prepared to brace himself for what came next.

* * *

 **A/N: I admit, it's not the happiest ending, but there's only so much one can do given that things with Lucifer are about to come to a head.**

 **Thanks to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed. ^_^ Next up is another sequel to one of my other fics, _The Path to Redemption_ , continuing that season 9 AU. You can always check my profile for a list of fics in the pipeline. Until next time!**


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